The Poems of Philip Freneau - LightNovelsOnl.com
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No trees of stately growth ascend, Eternal fogs their wings expand-- My favorite--man--I placed not there, But spirits of a darker sphere.
If Nature's self neglects her trade What strange confusion will be made: Such climes as these I doomed to fall On Saturn's cold unsocial ball:
But such a blemish, here, to see-- How can it else but anger me?
Where chilling winds forever freeze, What fool will fix on lands like these?"
Nature, abashed, thus made reply: "When earth I formed, I don't deny, Some parts I portioned out for pain, Hard storms, dull skies, and--little gain.
Mankind are formed with different souls: Some will be suited near the poles, Some pleased beneath the scorching line, And some, New Scotland, will be thine.
Yet, in due time, my plastic hand Shall mould it o'er, if you command; By you I act--if you stand still The world comes tumbling down the hill!"
Untouched--(said Jove)--remain the place!
In days to come I'll form a race, Born to betray their country's cause, And aid an alien monarch's laws.
When traitors to their country die, To lands, like this, their phantoms fly; But when the brave by death decay The mind explores a different way.
Then, Nature, hold your aiding hand-- Let fogs and tempests chill the land; While this degenerate work of thine To knaves and knapsacks I resign.
[313] Text follows the edition of 1809.
EPISTLE TO SYLVIUS[314]
On the Folly of Writing Poetry
Of all the fools that haunt our coast The scribbling tribe I pity most: Their's is a standing scene of woes, And their's no prospect of repose.
Then, Sylvius, why this eager claim To light your torch at Clio's flame?
To few she shews sincere regard, And none, from her, should hope reward.
A garret high, dark dismal room, Is still the pensive poet's doom: Hopes raised to heaven must be their lot, Yet bear the curse, to be forgot.
Hourly they deal with Grecian Jove, And draw their bills on banks above: Yet stand abashed, with all their fire, When brought to face some country 'squire.
To mend the world, is still their aim: The world, alas! remains the same, And so must stand to every age, Proof to the morals of the page!
The knave that keeps a tippling inn, The red-nosed boy that deals out gin, If aided by some paltry skill May both be statesmen when they will.
The man that mends a beggar's shoes, The quack that heals your negro's bruise, The wretch that turns a cutler's stone, Have wages they can call their own:
The head, that plods in trade's domains, Gets something to reward its pains; But Wit--that does the world beguile, Takes for its pay--an empty smile!
Yet each presumes his works will rise, And gain a name that never dies; From earth, and cold oblivion freed, Immortal, in the poets' creed!
Can Reason in that bosom reign Which fondly feeds a hope so vain, When every age that pa.s.ses by Beholds a crowd of poets die!
Poor Sappho's fate shall Milton know-- His scenes of grief and tales of woe No honours, that all Europe gave, No merit--shall from ruin save.
To all that write and all that read Fate shall, with hasty step, succeed!
Even Shakespeare's page, his mirth, his tears May sink beneath this weight of years.
Old Spenser's doom shall, Pope, be thine The music of each moving line Scarce bribes an age or two to stay, Admire your strain--then flit away.
The people of old Chaucer's times Were once in raptures with his rhymes, But Time--that over verse prevails, To other ears tells other tales.
Why then so sad, dear rhyming friends-- One common fate on both attends, The bards that sooth the statesman's ear, And him--who finds no audience there.
Mere structures formed of common earth, Not they from heaven derive their birth, Or why through life, like vagrants, pa.s.s To mingle with the mouldering ma.s.s?--
Of all the souls, from Jove that came To animate this mortal frame, Of all the myriads, on the wing, How few can taste the Muse's spring!
Seja.n.u.s, of mercantile skill, Without whose aid the world stands still, And by whose wonder-working play The sun goes round--(his flatterers say)
Seja.n.u.s has in house declared "These States, as yet, can boast no bard, And all the sing-song of our clime Is merely nonsense, fringed with rhyme."
With such a bold, conceited air When such a.s.sume the critic's chair, Low in the dust is genius laid, The muses with the man in trade.
Then, Sylvius, come--let you and I On Neptune's aid, once more rely: Perhaps the muse may still impart Her balm to ease the aching heart.
Though cold might chill and storms dismay, Yet Zoilus will be far away: With us at least, depart and share No garret--but resentment there.
[314] On Nov. 24, 1785, Freneau sailed from Middletown Point as Master of the sloop _Monmouth_ bound for southern ports. This lyric, first published in the edition of 1788, seems to have been his valedictory to the muse for a season. His conflict with Oswald and other critics had much embittered him. The text is from the edition of 1809.
THE DEPARTURE[315]
1785
From Hudson's cold, congealing streams As winter comes, I take my way Where other suns prompt other dreams, And shades, less willing to decay, Beget new raptures in the heart, Bid spleen's dejective crew depart, And wake the sprightly lay.
Good-natur'd Neptune, now so mild, Like rage asleep, or madness chain'd, By dreams amus'd or love beguil'd, Sleep on 'till we our port have gain'd.
The gentle breeze that curls the deep, Shall paint a finer dream on sleep!-- Ye nymphs, that haunt his grottoes low, Where sea green trees on coral grow, No tumults make Lest he should wake, And thus the pa.s.sing shade betray The sails that o'er his waters stray.
Sunk is the sun from yonder hill, The noisy day is past; The breeze decays, and all is still, As all shall be at last; The murmuring on the distant sh.o.r.e, The dying wave is all I hear, The yellow fields now disappear, No painted b.u.t.terflies are near, And laughing folly plagues no more.
The woods that deck yon' fading waste, That every wanton gale embrac'd, Ere summer yet made haste to fly; How smit with frost the pride of June!
How lost to me! how very soon The fairy prospects die!
Condemn'd to bend to winter's stroke, Low in the dust the embowering oak Has bid the fading leaf descend, Their short liv'd verdure at an end; How desolate the forests seem, Beneath whose shade The enamour'd maid Was once so fond to dream.
