The Poems of Philip Freneau Volume II Part 42

Some, came on the Indians to shed a new light, Convinced long before that their own must be right, And that all who had died in the centuries past On the devil's lee sh.o.r.e were eternally cast.

These exiles were formed in a whimsical mould, And were awed by their priests, like the Hebrews of old; Disclaimed all pretences to jesting and laughter, And sighed their lives through, to be happy hereafter.

On a crown immaterial their hearts were intent, They looked towards Zion, wherever they went, Did all things in hopes of a future reward, And worried mankind--for the sake of the Lord.

With rigour excessive they strengthened their reign, Their laws were conceived in the ill-natured strain, With mystical meanings the saint was perplext, And the flesh and the devil were slain by a text.

The body was scourged, for the good of the soul, All folly discouraged by peevish controul, A knot on the head was the sign of no grace, And the Pope and his comrade were pictured in lace.

A stove in their churches, or pews lined with green, Were horrid to think of, much more to be seen, Their bodies were warmed with the linings of love, And the fire was sufficient that flashed from above.

'Twas a crime to a.s.sert that the moon was opaque, To say the earth moved, was to merit the stake; And he that could tell an eclipse was to be, In the college of Satan had took his degree.

On Sundays their faces were dark as a cloud-- The road to the meeting was only allowed, And those they caught rambling, on business or pleasure, Were sent to the stocks, to repent at their leisure.

This day was the mournfullest day in the week-- Except on religion, none ventured to speak-- This day was the day to examine their lives, To clear off old scores, and to preach to their wives.

Their houses were forts, that seemed proof against light; Their parlours, all day, were the blackness of night: And, as if at their thresholds a cannon did roar, The animals hardly dared open their door 'Till the sun disappeared--then, like a mole's snout In the dusk of the evening, their noses popped out.

In the school of oppression though woefully taught, 'Twas only to be the oppressors they sought; All, all but themselves were be-deviled and blind, And their narrow-souled creed was to serve all mankind.

This beautiful system of nature below They neither considered, nor wanted to know, And called it a dog-house wherein they were pent, Unworthy themselves, and their mighty descent.

They never perceived that in Nature's wide plan There must be that whimsical creature called Man, Far short of the rank he affects to attain, Yet a link in its place, in creation's vast chain.

Whatever is foreign to us and our kind Can never be lasting, though seemingly joined-- The hive swarmed at length, and a tribe that was teazed Set out for Rhode-Island to think as they pleased.

Some hundreds to Britain ran murmuring home-- While others went off in the forests to roam, When they found they had missed what they looked for at first, The downfall of sin, and the reign of the just.

Hence, dry controversial reflections were thrown, And the old dons were vexed in the way they had shown; So those that are held in the work-house all night Throw dirt the next day at the doors, out of spite.

Ah pity the wretches that lived in those days, (Ye modern admirers of novels and plays) When nothing was suffered but musty, dull rules, And nonsense from Mather and stuff from the schools!

No story, like Rachel's, could tempt them to sigh, Susanna and Judith employed the bright eye-- No fine spun adventures tormented the breast, Like our modern Clarissa, Tom Jones, and the rest.

Those tyrants had chosen the books for your shelves, (And, trust me, no other than writ by themselves, For always by this may a bigot be known, He speaks well of nothing but what is his own.)

From indwelling evil these souls to release, The Quakers arrived with their kingdom of peace-- But some were transported and some bore the lash, And four they hanged fairly, for preaching up trash.

The lands of New-England (of which we now treat) Were famous, ere that, for producing of wheat; But the soil (or tradition says strangely amiss) Has been pestered with pumpkins from that day to this.

Thus, feuds and vexations distracted their reign, (And perhaps a few vestiges still may remain) But time has presented an offspring as bold, Less free to believe, and more wise than the old.

Their phantoms, their wizzards, their witches are fled, Matthew Paris's[F] story with horror is read-- His daughters, and all the enchantments they bore-- And the demon, that pinched them, is heard of no more.

[F] See Neale's History of New England.--_Freneau's note._

Their taste for the fine arts is strangely increased, And Latin's no longer a mark of the beast: Mathematics, at present, a farmer may know, Without being hanged for connections below.

Proud, rough, Independent, undaunted and free, And patient of hards.h.i.+ps, their task is the sea, Their country too barren their wish to attain, They make up the loss by exploring the main.

Wherever bright Phoebus awakens the gales I see the bold Yankees expanding their sails, Throughout the wide ocean pursuing their schemes, And chacing the whales on its uttermost streams.

No climate, for them, is too cold or too warm, They reef the broad canva.s.s, and fight with the storm; In war with the foremost their standards display, Or glut the loud cannon with death, for the fray.

No valour in fable their valour exceeds, Their spirits are fitted for desperate deeds; No rivals have they in our annals of fame, Or if they are rivalled, 'tis York has the claim.

Inspired at the sound, while the name she repeats, Bold Fancy conveys me to Hudson's retreats-- Ah, sweet recollection of juvenile dreams In the groves, and the forests that skirted his streams!

How often, with rapture, those streams were surveyed, When, sick of the city, I flew to the shade-- How often the bard, and the peasant shall mourn Ere those groves shall revive, or those shades shall return!

Not a hill, but some fortress disfigures it round!

And ramparts are raised where the cottage was found!

The plains and the vallies with ruin are spread, With graves in abundance, and bones of the dead.

The first that attempted to enter the streight (In anno one thousand six hundred and eight) Was Hudson (the same that we mentioned before, Who was lost in the gulph that he went to explore.)

For a sum that they paid him (we know not how much) This captain transferred all his right to the Dutch; For the time has been here, (to the world be it known,) When all a man sailed by, or saw, was his own.

The Dutch on their purchase sat quietly down, And fixed on an island to lay out a town; They modelled their streets from the horns of a ram, And the name that best pleased them was, New Amsterdam.

They purchased large tracts from the Indians for beads, And sadly tormented some runaway Swedes, Who (none knows for what) from their country had flown, To live here in peace, undisturbed and alone.

New Belgia, the Dutch called their province, be sure, But names never yet made possession secure, For Charley (the second that honoured the name) Sent over a squadron, a.s.serting his claim:

(Had his sword and his t.i.tle been equally slender, In vain had they summoned Mynheer to surrender) The soil they demanded, or threatened their worst, Insisting that Cabot had looked at it first.

The want of a squadron to fall on their rear Made the argument perfectly plain to Mynheer-- Force ended the contest--the right was a sham, And the Dutch were sent packing to hot Surinam.

'Twas hard to be thus of their labours deprived, But the age of Republics had not yet arrived-- Fate saw--though no wizzard could tell them as much-- That the crown, in due time, was to fare like the Dutch.

[290] Published in the _Freeman's Journal_, December 15, 1784, under the pseudonym "K." Republished in the editions of 1795 and 1809. Text from the latter edition.

THE PROGRESS OF BALLOONS[291]

"_Perdomita tellus, tumida cesserunt freta,_ "_Inferna nostros regna sensere impetus;_ "_Immune coelum est, degnus Alcidae labor,_ "_In alta mundi spatia sublimes feremur._"

--_Senec. Herc. Furens._

a.s.sist me, ye muses, (whose harps are in tune) To tell of the flight of the gallant balloon!

As high as my subject permit me to soar To heights unattempted, unthought of before, Ye grave learned Doctors, whose trade is to sigh, Who labour to chalk out a road to the sky, Improve on your plans--or I'll venture to say, A chymist, of Paris, will show us the way.