 | Poems by St. John Honeywood . |  |
65
POETICAL ADDRESS to the CITIZEN ADET.
While fate and adverse winds prolong your stay,
Ere yet you tempt the broad cerulean way,
Perhaps, Adet, all weightier cares resign'd,
A civic song may sooth your angry mind.—
With decent frankness, in determin'd tone,
To speak your country's language and your own;
To urge your claims with spirit, warmth and sense,
Became you well; nor gave us just offence.
When you, presuming on a herald's name,
Spurn'd those respects which sovereigns give and claim,
All laws of polish'd intercourse despis'd,
Laws e'en by hostile nations recognis'd;
Full in our face your country's terrors hurl'd,
And lour'd defiance to the western world;
Nor he, oh height of insolence refin'd!
His country's boast, the patriot of mankind,
Whose fame withstood the shock of wars unmov'd,
By foes acknowledged, and by heaven approv'd,
With which the world's remotest confines rung,
Escap'd the venom of your rancorous tongue.
When, bent on strife, and studious to embroil,
You lur'd the fickle crowd with trait'rous guile,
In Faction's cup a deadlier poison pour'd,
And Treason's half-exhausted strength restor'd;
Each patriot mind the daring insult felt,
And but your sacred mission screen'd your guilt.
Go to the Belgic boor, your threats proclaim,
Go bid Italia tremble at your name;
But dream not thus, vain legate, to appal
A freeborn race, whose sires were known to Gaul.
Can you forget, or have you ne'er been told,
For twice ten years thro' heaven have scarcely roll'd,
As yet our flag to Europe wav'd unknown,
Nor yet had Capet deign'd our cause to own;
When nobly rous'd, their despots to oppose,
In untried arms our hardy peasants rose;
At that dread crisis, when, o'er Concord's plain,
Degenerate Percy march'd his veteran train,
Our sturdy swains his veteran train repell'd,
And urg'd them home, inglorious from the field?
Lo! Freedom, bending o'er her Warren's tomb,
Points to his spirit flitting through the gloom;
For oft at eve he hovers round that height
Where next the Briton tried our arms in fight.
Thy life-warm tints, O Trumbull, best pourtray
The splendid horrors of that fatal day;
The noon-tide sun, half glimmering through the skies,
Where pitchy clouds, convolv'd with blaze, arise,
The sinking spire which crackling flames entwine,
The proud parade, the slow advancing line.
Thrice fled the Britons, to the main repell'd,
And thrice were forc'd, reluctant, to the field;
Nor theirs the chance to gain the blood-drench'd height
Till half their choicest warriors sunk in night.
Where, by Champlain's romantic banks are seen
The lost demesnes and mould'ring walls of Skeene,
Where marshes dank their noxious steams exhale,
The Woodland creek steals loitering through the vale,
And tangled wilds immeasurably spread,
Reluctant open to the huntsman's tread;
There, such as Minstrel feign'd his chief of old,
With many a hardy knight and baron bold,
Through those drear wilds, in terrible array,
We saw the haughty Burgoyne urge his way:
Let yon bleak height, where gallant Fraser fell,
Let Saratoga's field the sequel tell.
Ere yet you tempt the broad cerulean way,
Perhaps, Adet, all weightier cares resign'd,
A civic song may sooth your angry mind.—
With decent frankness, in determin'd tone,
To speak your country's language and your own;
To urge your claims with spirit, warmth and sense,
Became you well; nor gave us just offence.
When you, presuming on a herald's name,
Spurn'd those respects which sovereigns give and claim,
All laws of polish'd intercourse despis'd,
Laws e'en by hostile nations recognis'd;
Full in our face your country's terrors hurl'd,
And lour'd defiance to the western world;
Nor he, oh height of insolence refin'd!
His country's boast, the patriot of mankind,
66
By foes acknowledged, and by heaven approv'd,
With which the world's remotest confines rung,
Escap'd the venom of your rancorous tongue.
When, bent on strife, and studious to embroil,
You lur'd the fickle crowd with trait'rous guile,
In Faction's cup a deadlier poison pour'd,
And Treason's half-exhausted strength restor'd;
Each patriot mind the daring insult felt,
And but your sacred mission screen'd your guilt.
Go to the Belgic boor, your threats proclaim,
Go bid Italia tremble at your name;
But dream not thus, vain legate, to appal
A freeborn race, whose sires were known to Gaul.
Can you forget, or have you ne'er been told,
For twice ten years thro' heaven have scarcely roll'd,
As yet our flag to Europe wav'd unknown,
Nor yet had Capet deign'd our cause to own;
When nobly rous'd, their despots to oppose,
In untried arms our hardy peasants rose;
67
Degenerate Percy march'd his veteran train,
Our sturdy swains his veteran train repell'd,
And urg'd them home, inglorious from the field?
Lo! Freedom, bending o'er her Warren's tomb,
Points to his spirit flitting through the gloom;
For oft at eve he hovers round that height
Where next the Briton tried our arms in fight.
Thy life-warm tints, O Trumbull, best pourtray
The splendid horrors of that fatal day;
The noon-tide sun, half glimmering through the skies,
Where pitchy clouds, convolv'd with blaze, arise,
The sinking spire which crackling flames entwine,
The proud parade, the slow advancing line.
Thrice fled the Britons, to the main repell'd,
And thrice were forc'd, reluctant, to the field;
Nor theirs the chance to gain the blood-drench'd height
Till half their choicest warriors sunk in night.
Where, by Champlain's romantic banks are seen
The lost demesnes and mould'ring walls of Skeene,
68
The Woodland creek steals loitering through the vale,
And tangled wilds immeasurably spread,
Reluctant open to the huntsman's tread;
There, such as Minstrel feign'd his chief of old,
With many a hardy knight and baron bold,
Through those drear wilds, in terrible array,
We saw the haughty Burgoyne urge his way:
Let yon bleak height, where gallant Fraser fell,
Let Saratoga's field the sequel tell.
If thus, Alcides like, our infant power
Crush'd the fell monster struggling to devour,
Shall we, at length to toils and arms inur'd,
Our numbers doubled, and our strength matur'd,
Our union firm, our empire known to fame,
Shrink from the terrors of the Gallic name?
Yet war we deprecate; too well we know
From that curst source what floods of sorrow flow;
Fast by the laurel wreath the cypress twines,
And the heart sickens while the victor shines:
Where now the hamlet smoulders in the dust,
New spires may rise more splendid than the first;
Exhausted wealth brisk commerce may restore,
The fosse may fill, the mound with grass grow o'er;
Where armies fought may yellow harvests wave,
And crops luxuriant hide the soldier's grave:
This time effects, nor boots it to complain,
Where time can mend, or industry regain.
But who shall pierce the cheerless realms of gloom,
And rouse the sleeping warrior from his tomb?
Who to the widow'd heart shall comfort speak,
And with fresh roses flush the faded cheek;
To the lorn maid her slaughter'd swain restore,
And bid th' unshelter'd orphan weep no more?
Let petty despots, whose proud realms would make
A nameless isle on broad Superior's lake,
By impious wars enlarge their strait domain,
And lavish lives some ruin'd town to gain.
Shall we, whose northern lines are trac'd in snow,
While Georgia pants beneath the solar glow,
Whose orient bourne Atlantic waters lave,
The sacred barrier cautious Nature gave,
Whose western realms untravers'd yet remain,
For isles and towns destructive wars maintain?
Long be it ours the bloodless arts to prize,
To court the soil, to bid rich harvests rise,
That where rude Nature sleeps in sylvan gloom,
The cultur'd rose may shed its rich perfume;
To bend the soil, to ply the lab'ring oar,
Where wealth allures, and commerce points the shore.
These are paternal arts—to these alone
Our temperate race in every age were prone;
Nor, till by stern necessity compell'd,
Have left the cultur'd for the martial field.
Sworn to no faction, wedded to no name,
Our interest peace, and opulence our aim,
We fraternize on Nature's liberal plan,
With all the wide-spread family of man:
On this broad base we've stood, on this remain,
And peace or war we meet as heaven ordain.
E'en Gallia's wiser policy must prize
Our peace; for this should Europe's prayers arise:
Tho' wars exhaust her strength, tho' factions rend,
Still in our peace her jarring interests blend;
While her brave millions throng the tented field,
The plough unhonour'd, and the glebe untill'd,
Famine! the grim concomitant of war,
With hideous yells pursues the victor's car;
Then to her wants our granaries wide expand,
And spread their bounty o'er the famish'd land.
When the great Sire, dividing shore from shore,
Pour'd Atlas forth, and bade his billows roar,
This was our charter, favour'd spot of earth!
Though last, not least distinguish'd in thy birth;
Peace be thy lot, by heaven's high will design'd
To love, to shelter, and to bless mankind!
Crush'd the fell monster struggling to devour,
Shall we, at length to toils and arms inur'd,
Our numbers doubled, and our strength matur'd,
Our union firm, our empire known to fame,
Shrink from the terrors of the Gallic name?
Yet war we deprecate; too well we know
From that curst source what floods of sorrow flow;
Fast by the laurel wreath the cypress twines,
And the heart sickens while the victor shines:
69
New spires may rise more splendid than the first;
Exhausted wealth brisk commerce may restore,
The fosse may fill, the mound with grass grow o'er;
Where armies fought may yellow harvests wave,
And crops luxuriant hide the soldier's grave:
This time effects, nor boots it to complain,
Where time can mend, or industry regain.
But who shall pierce the cheerless realms of gloom,
And rouse the sleeping warrior from his tomb?
Who to the widow'd heart shall comfort speak,
And with fresh roses flush the faded cheek;
To the lorn maid her slaughter'd swain restore,
And bid th' unshelter'd orphan weep no more?
Let petty despots, whose proud realms would make
A nameless isle on broad Superior's lake,
By impious wars enlarge their strait domain,
And lavish lives some ruin'd town to gain.
Shall we, whose northern lines are trac'd in snow,
While Georgia pants beneath the solar glow,
70
The sacred barrier cautious Nature gave,
Whose western realms untravers'd yet remain,
For isles and towns destructive wars maintain?
Long be it ours the bloodless arts to prize,
To court the soil, to bid rich harvests rise,
That where rude Nature sleeps in sylvan gloom,
The cultur'd rose may shed its rich perfume;
To bend the soil, to ply the lab'ring oar,
Where wealth allures, and commerce points the shore.
These are paternal arts—to these alone
Our temperate race in every age were prone;
Nor, till by stern necessity compell'd,
Have left the cultur'd for the martial field.
Sworn to no faction, wedded to no name,
Our interest peace, and opulence our aim,
We fraternize on Nature's liberal plan,
With all the wide-spread family of man:
On this broad base we've stood, on this remain,
And peace or war we meet as heaven ordain.
71
Our peace; for this should Europe's prayers arise:
Tho' wars exhaust her strength, tho' factions rend,
Still in our peace her jarring interests blend;
While her brave millions throng the tented field,
The plough unhonour'd, and the glebe untill'd,
Famine! the grim concomitant of war,
With hideous yells pursues the victor's car;
Then to her wants our granaries wide expand,
And spread their bounty o'er the famish'd land.
When the great Sire, dividing shore from shore,
Pour'd Atlas forth, and bade his billows roar,
This was our charter, favour'd spot of earth!
Though last, not least distinguish'd in thy birth;
Peace be thy lot, by heaven's high will design'd
To love, to shelter, and to bless mankind!
Go then, Adel, may prosperous gales await,
And to assembled France these words relate:
Our arduous conflict clos'd, we saw, with pain,
Your gallant nation hug the feudal chain;
Saw your rich coffers emptied in an hour,
To glut the harpies of despotic power;
Saw the hard-earnings of the famish'd hind
Wrench'd from his hands, to pamper'd priests consign'd;
Saw your brave sons aspire to glorious shame,
And legions bleed to swell the Monarch's fame:
And much we joy'd when Reason's potent call
Awoke to life the energy of Gaul;
When young Fayette, a lov'd and injur'd name,
From Freedom's altar caught the hallow'd flame;
From breast to breast th' electric ardour ran,
And in full glare display'd the rights of man.
With rapt'rous joy we hail'd the kindred cause,
And join'd the thunder of the world's applause;
E'en when your chieftains aim'd at boundless sway,
When restless factions, eager for their prey,
Altars and thrones alike in ruin laid,
And dyed in Capet's blood the ruthless blade;
When heaven, indignant at the crimes of France,
Gave the loose rein to discord, hell and chance.
Now smear'd with gore the thoughtless crowd was seen
In frantic chorus round the guillotine;
Now led by David, nature they adore,
Their altars fuming to D'Herbois' whore.
When madness urg'd your councils to decree
That foreign shores must nurse your idol tree;
When, like a torrent, raging unconfin'd,
Your wild croisaders rush'd upon mankind,
And snow-clad Alps, affrighted, saw again
New Goths and Vandals waste th' Hesperian plain;
E'en midst this wreck, this anarchy of crimes,
Our partial memory clung to former times;
When our joint legions, varying but in name,
Together trod the arduous path to fame:
Nor cease our prayers th' Eternal to implore,
That peace may cheer your vine-clad hills once more;
That all those acts which render nations blest,
Which polish man, and give to life its zest,
With Freedom foremost in the sacred choir,
May sport perennial on the banks of Loire;
And while your legate's vauntings we despise,
We know your worth, your amity we prize:
Still midst convolving clouds and storms we see
A mighty nation struggling to be free;
Freedom we love, and patriots we revere,
But yet must learn terrific France to fear!
And to assembled France these words relate:
Our arduous conflict clos'd, we saw, with pain,
Your gallant nation hug the feudal chain;
72
To glut the harpies of despotic power;
Saw the hard-earnings of the famish'd hind
Wrench'd from his hands, to pamper'd priests consign'd;
Saw your brave sons aspire to glorious shame,
And legions bleed to swell the Monarch's fame:
And much we joy'd when Reason's potent call
Awoke to life the energy of Gaul;
When young Fayette, a lov'd and injur'd name,
From Freedom's altar caught the hallow'd flame;
From breast to breast th' electric ardour ran,
And in full glare display'd the rights of man.
With rapt'rous joy we hail'd the kindred cause,
And join'd the thunder of the world's applause;
E'en when your chieftains aim'd at boundless sway,
When restless factions, eager for their prey,
Altars and thrones alike in ruin laid,
And dyed in Capet's blood the ruthless blade;
When heaven, indignant at the crimes of France,
Gave the loose rein to discord, hell and chance.
73
In frantic chorus round the guillotine;
Now led by David, nature they adore,
Their altars fuming to D'Herbois' whore.
When madness urg'd your councils to decree
That foreign shores must nurse your idol tree;
When, like a torrent, raging unconfin'd,
Your wild croisaders rush'd upon mankind,
And snow-clad Alps, affrighted, saw again
New Goths and Vandals waste th' Hesperian plain;
E'en midst this wreck, this anarchy of crimes,
Our partial memory clung to former times;
When our joint legions, varying but in name,
Together trod the arduous path to fame:
Nor cease our prayers th' Eternal to implore,
That peace may cheer your vine-clad hills once more;
That all those acts which render nations blest,
Which polish man, and give to life its zest,
74
May sport perennial on the banks of Loire;
And while your legate's vauntings we despise,
We know your worth, your amity we prize:
Still midst convolving clouds and storms we see
A mighty nation struggling to be free;
Freedom we love, and patriots we revere,
But yet must learn terrific France to fear!
| Poems by St. John Honeywood . | |