University of Virginia Library

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AMERICAN ANTIQUITIES.—No. VI.

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[From “The New Haven Gazette and Connecticut Magazine” of February 22d, 1787.]

EXTRACT FROM THE ANARCHIAD, BOOK XX.
The soliloquy and invocation of Wronghead, with the appearance and consolatory speech of the Anarch.

“O thou dark world, where chance eternal reigns,
And wide misrule, the Anarch, old, maintains;
Orcus, and Hades! hear my fervent prayer,
And aid, if Wrongheads still deserve your care:
If you receiv'd me dark'ning from the womb,
And nurs'd the hope of mischiefs yet to come;
If busied, daily, planning pop'lar schemes,
And nightly rapt in democratic dreams,
Fair discord as a goddess I revere,
And in her vineyards toil from year to year;

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Still active, as the princely power of air,
To sow each jealousy, and till with care;
If I each long-face in the land assail,
At Congress, Courts, and legal powers to rail;
If I at trade, great men and lawyers' fees,
Have so harangu'd as vulgar ears to please;
If cant pretense of Liberty, the while,
Has been the universal burden of my style;
If this has gain'd me all the posts I hold,
With numerous salaries heap'd my chest with gold,
And fed my hopes that fed'ral ties no more
Shall bind the nations of the western shore;
That local schemes shall lift their narrow scale,
And our own statesmen through the land prevail;
Then, hear again, ye powers that stretch the sway,
Through the wide vast, beneath the solar day,
Hear, and dispel my anxious doubts and fears,
To me more dread than certain loss of ears.

“Since the Convention fell, no more to rise,
And grey'd these locks, and dimm'd these tearful eyes,
This more minute, less blust'ring plan, I tried,
Till wish'd success began to feed my pride:
But now, alas! stern justice rears her head,
And crowds my days with fears, my nights with dread;

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Those congregated sages, who, ere now,
Had I my wish, were doom'd to guide the plow,
Are planning, still, to build a fed'ral name,
And blast my laurels with eternal shame;
The pride of courts still brightens in their eyes,
And scorning still to pay our debt with lies,
Have rais'd these martial bands to aid their cause,
To awe each mob, and execute the laws.
Shall these succeed? and shall my labor'd schemes,
Ye sov'reign powers! disperse in empty dreams?”
He spoke, and breath'd a care-corroding sigh,
Then, through a dark, deep vale, bent down his eye;
When, lo! a lurid fog began to move,
And mount in solemn grandeur o'er the grove,
Convolving mists enroll'd a demon's form,
But headless, monstrous, shapeless as a storm;
While Wronghead gaz'd, the fiend sublimer grew,
Known for the Anarch, to his raptur'd view;
Sudden, as rumbling thunder heard remote,
These stunning sounds rose, grating, through his throat:

“Beloved sage, the powers of Chaos know
Your every fear, and number every woe;
Their ken sweeps broader than the bounds of day,
And thrice ten lengths of hell, their nether sway;

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Where now your world has gain'd that little hight,
Just o'er the precincts of chaotic night,
We held, of old, the reign; nor yet despair
To hold a wilder mental chaos there.

“Those warlike bands, whose music grates thine ear,
Are ills, at best, but not the worst we hear;
(Though they our much-lov'd mobs may sorely awe,
Give Union aid, and tone to fed'ral law,)—
More dang'rous foes arise, in learning's dress,
Arm'd with the pen, and ambush'd in the press.
The laughing youth, as lessons, learn their page,
And age, approving smiles, while dullards rage;
Their shafts all poison'd in Pierian springs,
Seem now impatient, on the bending strings,
To pierce their foes;—their arrows drink the fame
Of each unfederal politician's name.
See our best heroes, stagg'ring from the plain,
With eyes aghast, in curses vent their pain.
But give your toils not o'er—the human soul
Sinks, by strong instinct, far beneath her goal;
Fierce, bickering tribes, acknowledg'd once my sway,
From rising morning to the setting day;
Low bow'd the north, and all the spacious south
Receiv'd the precepts warm from Anarch's mouth;

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And when, o'er eastern climes, proud science shone,
And millions bow'd before her splendid throne,
My storm of Goths quench'd her meridian light,
And whelm'd her sons in anarchy and night:
There had she mourn'd her everlasting doom,
But the curs'd press dispell'd the midnight gloom.
Hence, learn, my seer, we shadowy powers who dwell
Far in the wilds of space, 'twixt this and hell,
Thron'd on unnumber'd whirlwinds, through the void,
Nor yet by distance, time, or place, annoy'd,
Save where our envious foe, with swift surprise,
Snatch'd that small spot where now creation lies:
Learn, though strict order guides His world on high,
Where suns emblaze, and systems vault the sky;
Yet there, we oft, in wayward whirls, control
The mystic, mad'ning mazes of the soul:
But chief, where science sheds her taintless beams,
And men are haunted worst with waking dreams;
Where prejudice is headstrong, reason blind,
The soul unpolish'd, all its views confin'd;
Where self is all-in-all; and stubborn will
Shuts out each good, through jealousy of ill.
Though in thy soul these choicest gifts preside,
With an unbounded share of humble pride;

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Though all the lesser virtues we can give,
Instinctive, in thy mind, immortal live;
Though all thy friends, late nicknam'd by our foes,
Each one his duty, task, and drudgery knows,
As plann'd by thee; yet know, my faithful seer,
These plans alone can scarce survive the year:
The lamp of science must be quench'd in night,
Till none, or next to none, can read or write;
The press, anon, in brazen chains must groan,
First watch'd and guarded by our saints alone;
The numerous schools that live along the shore,
Must fall, successive, and must rise no more;
The wits be hang'd; the Congress forc'd to flee
To western wilds, or headlong to the sea.

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