The Poems of Philip Freneau Volume III Part 27

In Yellow Fevers[A]

[A] A practice very prevalent at the time the above was written.--_Freneau's note._

In former days your starch'd divines From notes of twenty thousand lines Held many a long dispute; One argued this, one argued that, And reverend wigs, as umpires sat, All sophists to confute.

They dwelt on things beyond their ken And teazed and puzzled simple men To hold them in the dark; But their long season now is past, The churchman's horn has blown its blast, Things take a different mark.

Physicians now to quiet pain Stick lancet in the patient's vein That burns with feverish heat: The next contend, they're wholly wrong, That life will leak away ere long If thus the case they treat.

Meantime a practice gets about, Perhaps to make some doctors pout: Old Shelah, with her herbs and teas, And scarce a s.h.i.+lling for her fees, In many instances, at least, When deaths and funerals increased, Did more to dispossess the fever, Did more from dying beds deliver Than all the hippocratian host Could by the lancet's virtue boast; To which, I trow, full many a ghost Will have a grudge forever.

[130] From the edition of 1815. The yellow fever epidemic of 1797 created more than usual consternation. It was supposed to be of a more deadly type than that of 1793. The medical profession was divided as to the treatment of the disease. "Two hostile schools sprang up. At the head of one was William Currie. Benjamin Rush led the other. The Currie men declared the fever was imported and contagious. The Rush school maintained that it was not. Filthy streets, they held, and loathsome alleys had much to do with the sickness, and they urged the use of mercurial purges and the copious letting of blood_."--McMaster._

THE BOOK OF ODES[131]

ODE I

"He that readeth not in the Book of Odes is like a man standing with his face against a wall; he can neither move a step forward, nor survey any object."--_Hau Kiou Choaan._

Blest is the man who shuns the place Where Demo's love to meet, Who scorns to gnaw their bread and cheese, And hates their small beer treat:

But in the glare of splendid halls Doth place his whole delight, And there by day eats force-meat b.a.l.l.s, And roasted hogs by night.

He, like some thrifty pumpkin vine, Near Hartford that doth grow, Shall creep, and spread, and twist, and twine, And shade the weeds below.

Puff'd by all dunces far and near He'll swell to station high, While Democrats confus'd appear As he rides rattling by.

Not so the man of vulgar birth, And Democratic phiz; Want, toil, and every plague on earth, Shall certainly be his.

Poor as a snake, and ever vile Shall his condition be, Who to the men of royal style Neglects to bend the knee.

He, with the herd of little note, May starve on bread and cheese, And soon shall be without a coat Or sent to pay jail-fees.

ODE II[132]

TO THE FRIGATE CONSt.i.tUTION

"A s.h.i.+p carpenter being once asked, what sort of s.h.i.+ps are the _safest_, he answered, _those which are hauled up on dry land_."

Madam!--Stay where you are, 'Tis better, sure, by far Than venturing on an element of danger, Where heavy seas and stormy gales May wreck your hulk and rend your sails, Or Europe's black-guards treat you like a stranger,

When first you stuck upon your ways (Where half New England came to gaze) We antifederals thought it something odd That where all art had been display'd, And even the builder deem'd a little G.o.d, He had your ways not better laid.

Omens, indeed, are now exploded, But you have something dismal boded: Say--must the navy-system go to rack, And things advance at such a rate That every wisely govern'd state Will hold the author of the scheme a quack.

O frigate Const.i.tution! stay on sh.o.r.e: Why would you meet old Ocean's roar?

Was man design'd To be confin'd In those fire-spitting h.e.l.ls a navy nam'd, Where Vice herself, abash'd, asham'd, Turns from the horrid scene of blood and bones, And mangled carcases of men; and grunts and groans.

Remaining on the stocks, in gloomy pride, Without an anchor thou shalt safely ride; No pumping there, To make men swear, Waves you'll despise, Tho' fierce they rise To heaven when storms and tempests blow: Steady as fate, unmov'd will you appear When other s.h.i.+ps the foaming surges tear-- No fear of broaching to.

Nor useless need you be, if right we deem, For harmless purposes you proper seem-- Scorn to be made a b.l.o.o.d.y, murdering den; Let folks of sense At less expense Convert you into stores--to bring in rents; Stow pumpkins there--or anything but Men.

ODE III[133]

TO DUNCAN DOOLITTLE

A "_half-starved_" Democrat

"Lodge where you must, drink small-beer where you can, "But eat no roast pig, if no Federal man."

Duncan, with truth it may be said, Your mouth was made for rye or barley bread; What claim have you to halls of state, Whose business is to stand and wait, Subserviant to command?

What right have you to white-bread, superfine, Who were by nature destin'd for "a _swine_"-- As said good Edmund Burke, The drudge of Britain's dirty work, Whose mighty pamphlets rous'd the royal band!

When pa.s.sing by a splendid dome of pride By speculation built (and built so vast That there a standing army might reside) Say, Duncan, stood you not aghast, When gazing up (like fox that look'd for grapes) You saw so many things in curious shapes, Trees rang'd along the table, And sugar-columns, far above the rabble, With roses blooming in October, And wisdom's figure--dull and sober.

Ah! how you smack'd your lips, and look'd so wishful When pigs and poultry--many a lovely dish-full, Imparted to your nose the savoury scent For royal noses--not for Duncan's--meant.

For things like these you, caitiff, were not born-- A pewter spoon was for your chops intended; Some s.h.i.+ns of beef, and garlands made of thorn-- On things like these has Freedom's feast depended.

Though in the days of fight you musquet carried, Or wandered up and down, a cannon-hauling, Better you might in Jericho have tarried And rebel-starving made your loyal calling.

Among our far-fam'd chieftains that are dead (Like beer set by in mug without a lid, And sure, a half-gill gla.s.s I'll put it all in) I'll toast your health--yes, to the very brim And to the little gaping world proclaim You are a Hero fallen: One of the wights who dar'd all death, or wound, And warr'd for two and sixpence in the pound.

Of public virtue you're a rare example-- Go, mind your hoe, your pick-ax, or your spade; A hut of six foot square shall be your "temple,"

And all your honour--strutting on parade.

But pray, beware of public good; It will not always find you food, And if your son should anything inherit, Bequeath him not your public spirit, But sixpence, to be train'd to sawing wood.

ODE IV[134]

TO PEST-ELI-HALI

A Democratic Printer on the Western Banks of the Hudson

No easy task that press a.s.sumes Which takes the lead in Freedom's band, And scatters in nocturnal glooms The blaze of Reason through our land: Each empty bellows would, no doubt, Rise, and aspire to put it out.

Blamed though you are, pursue your way; Night evermore precedes the sun; Whate'er some angry king's-men say, You play a game that must be won: The bliss of man--is the great prize That yet at stake with tyrants lies.

When first a mean, designing few Their poisonous dregs by Herald spread; An antidote, by such as you, Was at the root of mischief laid; With a simple herb from Reason's plains You kept all right in Freedom's veins.

Now hostile views, and low design Are busy to annoy your page, Controul its strength, its fires confine, And war with sense and reason wage: They hope, with fogs to quench the sun, They hope your useful race is run.

But though some narrow hearts contrive To shove you from your mounted car; Right pleasantly we see you drive, And hardly heed their little war: Like insects, creeping in the dirt, They merely serve to make you sport.