The Poems of Philip Freneau - LightNovelsOnl.com
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For, slighting all the sages knew, I learn philosophy from you.
[335] The _Freeman's Journal_ printed this poem on Feb. 7, 1787, with the date of composition Jan. 26, 1787. The lady's name in this original version was Cynthia. The poem was reprinted in the 1788 collection as a part of the story "Light Summer Reading." The half mad poet, who is infatuated with the lovely Marcia, writes the verses and inscribes them "To Marcia." It seems to have been a favorite with the poet. He republished it in the _National Gazette_ in 1792 under the t.i.tle "Marcella in a Consumption." Text from the edition of 1809.
ELEGIAC LINES[336]
With life enamoured, but in death resigned, To seats congenial flew the unspotted mind: Attending spirits hailed her to that sh.o.r.e Where this world's winter chills the soul no more.
Learn hence, to live resigned;--and when you die No fears will seize you, when that hour is nigh.
Transferred to heaven, Amanda has no share In the dull business of this world of care.
Her blaze of beauty, even in death admired, A moment kindled, but as soon expired.
Sweet as the favourite offspring of the May Serenely mild, not criminally gay:
Adorned with all that nature could impart To please the fancy and to gain the heart; Heaven ne'er above more innocence possessed, Nor earth the form of a diviner guest: A mind all virtue!--flames descended here From some bright seraph of some n.o.bler sphere; Yet, not her virtues, opening into bloom, Nor all her sweetness saved her from the tomb, From prospects darkened, and the purpose crossed, Misfortune's winter,--and a lover lost; Nor such resemblance to the forms above, The heart of goodness, and the soul of love!
Ye thoughtless fair!--her early death bemoan, Sense, virtue, beauty, to oblivion gone.[337]
[336] In the 1788 edition this appeared as two poems. The opening six lines had the t.i.tle "Epitaph" and the remainder was ent.i.tled "Lines on the Death of a Lady." In the 1809 edition, the text of which is followed here, the poem was placed in the group of Amanda poems.
[337] "And while you mourn your fate, think on your own."--_Ed. 1788._
THE INSOLVENT'S RELEASE[338]
(By H. Salem)
Not from those dismal dreary coasts I come Where wizzard Faustus chews his brimstone rolls, Nor have I been to wrangle with the men Of that sad country, where, for want of rum, Dead putrid water from the stagnant fen Is drank, unmingled, by departed souls: Nor from that dog-house do I bring you news, Where Macedonian Philip[A] mends old shoes, But from that dreadful place arrived, Where men in debt at cribbage play, And I most cunningly contrived To fatten on two groats a day-- Full on my back now turned the key, The 'squire himself is not so free.
When to these rugged walls, a fathom thick, I came, directed by the sheriff's stick, Alas, said I, what can they mean to do!
I am not conscious of one roguish trick!
I am no thief--I took no Christian's life, Nor have I meddled with the parson's wife, (Which would have been a dreadful thing you know) Then, by these gloomy walls, this iron gate Appointed by the wisdom of your state To shut in little rogues, and keep out great; Tell me, ye pretty lads, that deal in law, Ye men of mighty wigs, ye judges, say-- Say! by the jailor's speckled face That never beamed one blush of grace; How long must I In prison lie For just nine guineas--that I cannot pay!
Return, ye happy times, when all were free, No jails on land, no nets at sea; When mountain beasts unfettered ran, And man refused to shut up man, As men of modern days have shut up me!-- This is the dreary dark abode Of poverty and solitude; Such was the gloomy cell where Bunyan lay While his dear pilgrim helped the time away-- Such was the place where Wakefield's vicar drew Grave morals from the imprisoned crew, And found both time to preach and pray.
In bed of straw and broken chair What consolation could be found!
No gay companions ventured there To push the ruddy liquor round!
From jug of stone I drank, alone, A beverage, neither clear nor strong No table laid, No village maid Came there to cheer me with her song; My days were dull, my nights were long!
My evening dreams, My morning schemes Were how to break that cruel chain, And, Jenny, be with you again.
[338] The version in the _Freeman's Journal_ is dated Philadelphia, April 10, 1787. The t.i.tle in the 1788 version is "The Insolvent's Release and Miseries of a Country Jail." The "H. Salem" was first added in the edition of 1809, the text of which I have followed.
[A] See Lucian's Dialogues; to the following effect:
"Great scholars have in Lucian read, When Philip, king of Greece, was dead His soul and body did divide.
And each part took, a different side; One rose a star, the other fell Below--and mended shoes in h.e.l.l."--_Freneau's note._
MAY TO APRIL[339]
Without your showers, I breed no flowers, Each field a barren waste appears; If you don't weep, my blossoms sleep, They take such pleasures in your tears.
As your decay made room for May, So I must part with all that's mine: My balmy breeze, my blooming trees To torrid suns their sweets resign!
O'er April dead, my shades I spread: To her I owe my dress so gay-- Of daughters three, it falls on me To close our triumphs on one day:
Thus, to repose, all Nature goes; Month after month must find its doom: Time on the wing, May ends the Spring, And Summer dances on her tomb!
[339] First published in the _Freeman's Journal_ where it was signed Philadelphia, April 16, 1787. Text from the edition of 1809.
TO AN AUTHOR[340]
Your leaves bound up compact and fair, In neat array at length prepare, To pa.s.s their hour on learning's stage,[341]
To meet the surly critic's rage; The statesman's slight, the smatterer's[342] sneer-- Were these, indeed, your only[343] fear, You might be tranquil and resigned: What most should touch your fluttering mind;[344]
Is that, few critics[345] will be found To sift[346] your works, and deal the wound.
Thus, when one fleeting year is past On some bye-shelf your book is cast--[347]
Another comes, with something new,[348]
And drives you fairly out of view: With some to praise, but more to blame, The mind[349] returns to--whence it came; And some alive, who scarce could read[350]
Will publish satires on the dead.
Thrice happy Dryden[A], who could meet Some rival bard in every street!
When all were bent on writing well It was some credit to excel:--[351]
[A] See Johnson's lives of the English Poets.--_Freneau's note._
Thrice happy Dryden, who could find A Milbourne for his sport designed-- And Pope, who saw the harmless rage Of Dennis bursting o'er his page Might justly spurn the critic's aim, Who only helped to swell his fame.
On these bleak climes by Fortune thrown, Where rigid Reason reigns alone, Where lovely Fancy has no sway, Nor magic forms about us[352] play-- Nor nature takes her summer hue Tell me, what has the muse to do?--
An age employed in edging steel Can no poetic raptures feel; No solitude's attracting power,[353]
No leisure of the noon day hour, No shaded stream, no quiet grove Can this fantastic century move;
The muse of love in no request-- Go--try your fortune[354] with the rest, One of the nine you should engage,[355]
