The Poems of Philip Freneau Volume I Part 12

_Genius_

The time will come When these stupendous piles you deem immortal, Worn out with age, shall moulder on their bases, And down, down, low to endless ruin verging, O'erwhelm'd by dust, be seen and known no more!-- Ages ago, in dark oblivion's lap Had they been shrouded, but the atmosphere In these parch'd climates, hostile to decay, Is pregnant with no rain, that by its moisture Might waste their bulk in such excess of time, And prove them merely mortal.

'Twas on this plain the ancient Memphis stood, Her walls encircled these tall pyramids-- But where is Pharoah's palace, where the domes Of Egypt's haughty lords?--all, all are gone, And like the phantom snows of a May morning Left not a vestige to discover them!

_Traveller_

How shall I reach the vortex of this pile-- How shall I clamber up its shelving sides?

I scarce endure to glance toward the summit, It seems among the clouds--When was't thou rais'd, O work of more than mortal majesty-- Was this produc'd by persevering man, Or did the G.o.ds erect this pyramid?

_Genius_

Nor G.o.ds, nor giants rais'd this pyramid-- It was the toil of mortals like yourself That swell'd it to the skies-- See'st thou yon' little door? Through that they pa.s.s'd, Who rais'd so high this aggregate of wonders!

What cannot tyrants do, When they have subject nations at their will, And the world's wealth to gratify ambition!

Millions of slaves beneath their labours fainted Who here were doom'd to toil incessantly, And years elaps'd while groaning myriads strove To raise this mighty tomb--and but to hide The worthless bones of an Egyptian king.-- O wretch, could not a humbler tomb have done, Could nothing but a pyramid inter thee!

_Traveller_

Perhaps old Jacob's race, when here oppress'd, Rais'd, in their years of bondage this dread pile.

_Genius_

Before the Jewish patriarchs saw the light, While yet the globe was in its infancy These were erected to the pride of man-- Four thousand years have run their tedious round Since these smooth stones were on each other laid, Four thousand more may run as dull a round Ere Egypt sees her pyramids decay'd.

_Traveller_

But suffer me to enter, and behold The interior wonders of this edifice.

_Genius_

'Tis darkness all, with hateful silence join'd-- Here drowsy bats enjoy a dull repose, And marble coffins, vacant of their bones, Show where the royal dead in ruin lay!

By every pyramid a temple rose Where oft in concert those of ancient time Sung to their G.o.ddess Isis hymns of praise; But these are fallen!--their columns too superb Are levell'd with the dust--nor these alone-- Where is thy vocal statue, Memnon, now, That once, responsive to the morning beams, Harmoniously to father Phoebus sung!

Where is the image that in past time stood High on the summit of yon' pyramid?-- Still may you see its polish'd pedestal-- Where art thou ancient Thebes?----all bury'd low, All vanish'd! crumbled into mother dust, And nothing of antiquity remains But these huge pyramids, and yonder hills.

_Time_

Old Babel's tower hath felt my potent arm I ruin'd Ecbatan and Babylon, Thy huge Colossus, Rhodes, I tumbled down, And on these pyramids I smote my scythe; But they resist its edge--then let them stand.

But I can boast a greater feat than this, I long ago have shrouded those in death Who made those structures rebels to my power-- But, O return!--These piles are not immortal!

This earth, with all its b.a.l.l.s of hills and mountains, Shall perish by my hand--then how can these, These h.o.a.ry headed pyramids of Egypt, That are but dwindled warts upon her body, That on a little, little spot of ground Extinguish the dull radiance of the sun, Be proof to Death and me?----Traveller return-- There's nought but G.o.d immortal----He alone Exists secure, when Man, and Death, and Time, (Time not immortal, but a fancied point In the vast circle of eternity) Are swallow'd up, and, like the pyramids, Leave not an atom for their monument!

[32] The text is from the edition of 1786. The 1795 edition has the note "anno 1769."

THE MONUMENT OF PHAON[33]

Written 1770.

Phaon, the admirer of Sappho, both of the isle of Lesbos, privately forsook this first object of his affections, and set out to visit foreign countries. Sappho, after having long mourned his absence (which is the subject of one of Ovid's finest epistles), is here supposed to fall into the company of Ismenius a traveller, who informs her that he saw the tomb of a certain Phaon in Sicily, erected to his memory by a lady of the island, and gives her the inscriptions, hinting to her that, in all probability, it belonged to the same person she bemoans. She thereupon, in a fit of rage and despair, throws herself from the famous Leucadian rock, and perishes in the gulph below.

_Sappho_

No more I sing by yonder shaded stream, Where once intranc'd I fondly pa.s.s'd the day, Supremely blest, when Phaon was my theme, But wretched now, when Phaon is away!

Of all the youths that grac'd our Lesbian isle He, only he, my heart propitious found, So soft his language, and so sweet his smile, Heaven was my own when Phaon clasp'd me round!

But soon, too soon, the faithless lover fled To wander on some distant barbarous sh.o.r.e-- Who knows if Phaon is alive or dead, Or wretched Sappho shall behold him more.

_Ismenius_

As late in fair Sicilia's groves I stray'd, Charm'd with the beauties of the vernal scene I sate me down amid the yew tree's shade, Flowers blooming round, with herbage fresh and green.

Not distant far a monument arose Among the trees and form'd of Parian stone, And, as if there some stranger did repose, It stood neglected, and it stood alone.

Along its sides dependent ivy crept, The cypress bough, Plutonian green, was near, A sculptur'd Venus on the summit wept, A pensive Cupid dropt the parting tear.

Strains deep engrav'd on every side I read, How Phaon died upon that foreign sh.o.r.e-- Sappho, I think your Phaon must be dead, Then hear the strains that do his fate deplore:

Thou swain that lov'st the morning air, To those embowering trees repair, Forsake thy sleep at early dawn.

And of this landscape to grow fonder, Still, O still persist to wander Up and down the flowery lawn; And as you there enraptur'd rove From hill to hill, from grove to grove, Pensive now and quite alone, Cast thine eye upon this stone, Read its melancholy moan; And if you can refuse a tear To the youth that slumbers here, Whom the Lesbians held so dear, Nature calls thee not her own.

Echo, hasten to my aid!

Tell the woods and tell the waves, Tell the far off mountain caves (Wrapt in solitary shade); Tell them in high tragic numbers, That beneath this marble tomb, Shrouded in unceasing gloom Phaon, youthful Phaon, slumbers, By Sicilian swains deplor'd-- That a narrow urn restrains Him who charm'd our pleasing plains, Him, whom every nymph ador'd.

Tell the woods and tell the waves, Tell the mossy mountain caves, Tell them, if none will hear beside, How our lovely Phaon died.

In that season when the sun Bids his glowing charioteer Phoebus, native of the sphere, High the burning zenith run; Then our much lamented swain, O'er the sunny, scorched plain, Hunting with a chosen train, Slew the monsters of the waste From those gloomy caverns chac'd Round stupendous Etna plac'd.-- Conquer'd by the solar beam At last he came to yonder stream; Panting, thirsting there he lay On this fatal summer's day, While his locks of raven jett Were on his temples dripping wet; The gentle stream ran purling by O'er the pebbles, pleasantly, Tempting him to drink and die-- He drank indeed--but never thought Death was in the gelid draught!-- Soon it chill'd his boiling veins, Soon this glory of the plains Left the nymphs and left the swains, And has fled with all his charms Where the Stygian monarch reigns, Where no sun the climate warms!-- Dread Pluto then, as once before, Pa.s.s'd Avernus' waters o'er; Left the dark and dismal sh.o.r.e, And strait enamour'd, as he gloomy stood, Seiz'd Phaon by the waters of the wood.

Now o'er the silent plain We for our much lov'd Phaon call again, And Phaon! Phaon! ring the woods amain-- From beneath this myrtle tree, Musidora, wretched maid, How shall Phaon answer thee, Deep in vaulted caverns laid!-- Thrice the myrtle tree hath bloom'd Since our Phaon was entomb'd, I, who had his heart, below, I have rais'd this turret high, A monument of love and woe That Phaon's name may never die.-- With deepest grief, O muse divine, Around his tomb thy laurels twine And shed thy sorrow, for to morrow Thou, perhaps, shalt cease to glow-- My hopes are crost, my lover lost, And I must weeping o'er the mountains go!

_Sappho_

Ah, faithless Phaon, thus from me to rove, And bless my rival in a foreign grove!

Could Sicily more charming forests show Than those that in thy native Lesbos grow-- Did fairer fruits adorn the bending tree Than those that Lesbos did present to thee!

Or didst thou find through all the changing fair One beauty that with Sappho could compare!

So soft, so sweet, so charming and so kind, A face so fair, such beauties of the mind-- Not Musidora can be rank'd with me Who sings so well thy funeral song for thee!--[34]

I'll go!--and from the high Leucadian steep Take my last farewell in the lover's leap, I charge thee, Phaon, by this deed of woe To meet me in the Elysian shades below, No rival beauty shall pretend a share, Sappho alone shall walk with Phaon there.

She spoke, and downward from the mountain's height Plung'd in the plashy wave to everlasting night.

[33] Text from the edition of 1786. For the edition of 1795 Freneau cut out the song of Ismenius, beginning "Thou swain that lov'st the morning air," and extending to the speech of Sappho, "Ah, faithless Phaon."

[34] This and the preceding line omitted from the later versions.

THE POWER OF FANCY[35]

Written 1770.