The miscellaneous essays and occasional writings of Francis Hopkinson, Esq

Hopkinson, Francis (1737-1791)

VOLUME I.

“I've A THOUGHT—WHAT'S IT LIKE?”

VOLUME II.

VOLUME III.

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3. VOLUME III.

TO THE Rev. Mr. WILLIAM SMITH,

ON HEARING HIS SERMON UPON THE DEATH OF Mr. WILLIAM THOMAS MARTIN.

I call no aid, no muses to inspire,
Or teach my breast to feel a poet's fire:
Your soft expressions of a grief sincere
Bring from my soul a sympathising tear:
Taught by your voice, my artless numbers flow,
I sigh in verse, am elegant in woe,
And loftier thoughts within my bosom glow;
For when in all the charms of language drest
A manly grief flows genuine from the breast:
What generous nature can escape the wounds,
Or steel itself against the pow'r of melting sounds?

Oh! could I boast to move with equal art
The human soul and melt the stony heart;

My long lov'd friend should thro' my numbers shine,
Some virtue lost be wept in ev'ry line:
For virtues he had many—'twas confest,
That native sense and sweetness fill'd his breast;
But cooler reason checks the bold intent,
And to the task refusing her consent,
This only truth permits me to disclose,
That in your own you represent my woes,
And sweeter than my song is your harmonious prose.

September, 1754.

ODE ON MUSIC.

Hark! hark! the sweet vibrating lyre
Sets my attentive soul on fire;
Thro' all my frame what pleasures thrill
Whilst the loud treble warbles shrill,
And the more slow and solemn bass
Adds charm to charm and grace to grace.

Sometimes in sweetly languid strains
The guilty trembling string complains:
How it delights may ravished ear
When the expiring notes I hear
Vanish distant and decay!—
They steal my yielding soul away.

Neatly trip the merry dance,
And lightly touch and swiftly glance;
Let boundless transport laugh aloud
Sounds madly ramble mix and crowd,
Till all in one loud rapture rise,
Spread thro' the air and reach the skies.

But when you touch the solemn air,
Oh! swell each note distinct and clear;
In ev'ry strain let sorrow sigh,
Languish soft and sweetly die.

So shall th' admir'd celestial art,
Raise and transport my ravish'd heart;
Exalt my soul, and give my mind
Ideas of sublimer kind.
So great the bliss it seems to prove
There must be music too above.
That from the trumpets silver sound
Of wing'd arch-angels plac'd around
Thy burning throne—Oh! king of Heaven!
Most perfect harmony is giv'n:
Whilst happy saints in concert join
To make the music more divine,
And with immortal voices sing
HOSANNAHS to their glorious KING.

SONG.

[I.]

Beauty and merit now are join'd,
An angel's form, an angel's mind
Are sweetly met in thee;
Thy soul, which all the virtues grace,
Shines forth with lustre in thy face,
From affectation free.

II.

Who in thy form, too lovely maid!
Can read thy temper there display'd;
Can look and calmly see?
The face that with such beauty charms,
The breast which so much virtue warms,
Is sure too much for me!

To Miss ---,

On HER KIND ASSISTANCE IN THE VOCAL PARTS OF AN ORATORICAL EXERCISE, PERFORMED AT THE COLLEGE OF Philadelphia.

I.

The pleasing task be mine, sweet maid!
To spread thy growing fame;
For early virtues such as thine
An early honour claim.

II.

'Twas nobly done, to lend thy voice
And soft harmonious song,
When Freedom was the rapturous theme
That warbled from thy tongue.

III.

Yet lovely fair! thy voice, tho' sweet,
We should not most admire;
Good-nature, and the kind intent,
A nobler praise require.

IV.

Let not the merit all be plac'd
In thy harmonious skill;
'Tis not the deed obliges most,
The virtue's in the will.

V.

Thus still proceed, above all pride;
Such themes be ever thine:
So to the good shalt thou be dear,
And favour'd by the Nine.

Alluding to a song which she sung in praise of Freedom.

To THE MEMORY OF Mr. WILLIAM WILLCOCKS,

A BELOVED FRIEND.

Draw near ye youths, in whom soft sorrows dwell,
Whose streaming eyes your heartfelt anguish tell:
Come seek with me the tomb where Pollio lies,
Tears aiding tears, and sighs encreasing sighs!
How great the grief! when genius fall a prey
In early bloom to death's unyielding sway?
When all the prospects of a father's joy,
A mother's fondest wishes for her boy,
One cruel stroke must blast, one cruel stroke destroy.
Let not th' unskilful muse attempt to tell
Thy many virtues, though she knew them well;
She knew thy soul adorn'd with ev'ry grace,
And sure that soul was pictur'd in thy face.

The youths, thy fellows, shall delight to tread
The noble footsteps thy example led;
To make those virtues in their conduct shine,
Which once, dear youth, we all acknowledg'd thine.
How few excel! they'll place thee mid that few,
Lament your loss, and strive to be like you.

Oh! may your fate this warning give to all,
“That old age must, and blooming youth may fall.”

HERMITAGE, A POEM,

INSCRIBED TO Mr. JACOB DUCHÉ, JUN.

I.

Whilst other bards in happier lays
The fair Amanda sing,
Teach the sweet lyre her grateful praise
To waft from ev'ry string:

II.

Whilst you the softer theme prolong
Of Seraphina's voice,
And in description make your song
Harmonious as your choice:

III.

My muse delights in humble strains
To sing of sylvan scenes,
Of rural prospects, flow'ry plains,
And wide extended greens.

IV.

Sweet Hermitage ! thy happy seat,
The muse's choice and mine;
Thy shady silent soft retreat
Shall in description shine.

V.

That secret walk of liveliest green,
That breeze inviting shade,
Appears a solemn silent scene
For contemplation made.

VI.

There will I range, and to the muse
Address my ardent pray'r;
In such a place she can't refuse,
Nor would be backward there.

VII.

Oft did this happy grove resound
Strains sweeter far than mine;
Here sat the Bard , and here around
Stood the indulgent Nine.

VIII.

Poetic music from his tongue
Harmonious roll'd away;
The birds in dumb attention hung
To hear his softer lay.

IX.

And thou my friend, in later days,
Fill'd this resounding grove
With songs of matchless Delia's praise,
Soft as the breath of love.

X.

Dear pensive youth, oft have you sought
At eve, this pleasing shade;
Your very soul wrapt up in thought,
As lonely here you stray'd.

XI.

Or shall my fancy—restless power!
Another scene display,
And paint thee in yon jasmine bow'r,
Joyful, alert, and gay.

XII.

With Delia's sprightly converse blest
The hours unheeded glide,
And Pyllades, friend of thy breast,
Attending at thy side.

XIII.

With joy I tread the flow'ry green
Which thou hast trode before;
Strive to repeat each happy scene,
And count thy pleasures o'er.

XIV.

Where'er my wond'ring eyes I bend,
New beauties still I find;
Here cooling vistas far extend,
The gardens bloom behind.

XV.

To distant plains I stretch mine eye,
And view th' enlarged scene;
Above a vast extended sky,
Below a boundless green .

XVI.

Thence, swiftly borne in airy flight,
The breezes of the spring,
To these blest scenes of calm delight
Both health and pleasure bring.

XVII.

At early morn I love to tread
The garden's gravelly walk,
Catch Flora blushing in her bed,
Whilst dew drops bend each stalk.

XVIII.

To see the lovely blooming rose
Her choicest sweets display,
And ev'ry radiant charm disclose
To sol's inviting ray.

XIX.

Her waving foliage glitt'ring bright,
With drops of pearly dew;
Like diamonds sparkling to the light,
They strike the distant view.

XX.

The faithful matron thus to meet
Her absent lord's return,
Her hair, her neck, her waist, her feet,
Doth with rich gems adorn.

XXI.

And as she lonely spends each day
His absence to bemoan,
The minutes gliding slow away,
Whilst he her lord is gone.

XXII.

So in the dreary shades of night,
The rose her beauty veils,
'Till with returning joy and light,
The sun o'er all prevails.

XXIII.

But when the soft ey'd eve invites
My steps from yonder glade,
Then, then, my soften'd soul delights
To seek the darksome shade.

XXIV.

Devotion fills my glowing breast,
And all my powers combine
To praise my God, to make me blest,
In transports quite divine.

XXV.

Behold to raise the solemn scene
The silver moon arise;
With mildest lustre gild the green,
With radiance fill the skies.

XXVI.

Her feeble inoffensive ray
Scarce glimmers thro' the trees,
Whose leaves with trembling murmurs play,
Shook by the passing breeze.

XXVII.

'Tis silence all—my soul arise,
Arise to prayer and praise;
Thy God looks down with friendly eyes,
He listens to thy lays.

XXVIII.

Oh thou, whose goodness knows no end,
Whose mercies I enjoy,
In praise to thee my breath I'll spend,
My latest hours employ.

XXIX.

Let me oft thus thy influence know,
Oh! be thus ever kind;
The brightness of thy visage show;
Enlighten thou my mind.

XXX.

So shall my soul to heav'n ascend,
And join'd with angels there,
Before thy footstool lowly bend,
In more refined pray'r.

The seat of the hon. Josiah Martin, esq. upon Long-Island.

The rev. Mr. Smith, who resided there several years.

The great plains on Long-Island.

ADVICE TO AMANDA.

I.

Amanda, since thy lovely frame,
Of ev'ry charm possest,
Hath power to raise the purest flame
And warm the coldest breast:

II.

Oh! think that heav'n could ne'er design,
Thou too reserved maid,
That ever beauties, such as thine,
Like unknown flow'rs should fade.

III.

When next you see your faithful swain,
Your Strephon at your feet;
When next you hear him sigh his pain
And tend'rest vows repeat.

IV.

Then think 'tis fit a love so true
Should meet a kind regard;
And think 'tis given alone to you
His virtue to reward.

V.

If constancy, with merit join'd,
Hath any charms for thee,
Let Strephon thy acceptance find,
For such a swain is he.

VI.

No longer then, too cruel fair,
Defer the happy day;
But with thy love reward his care,
His tenderness repay.

VII.

So shall th' indulgent eye of Heav'n
The worthy choice approve,
When such victorious charms are giv'n
A prize to faithful love.

AN EPIGRAM.

ON THE DEATH OF A FAVOURITE LAP DOG.

Chloe the muse records thy name,
And thou, tho' dead, shalt live in fame;
Yet know this honour, not to you,
But is to Mira's favourite due.

L'ALLEGRO.

Hence melancholy, care and sorrow,
My heart defers you till to-morrow;
I have no room within my breast
For any dull, cold, lifeless guest—
But hither come, life raising joy,
In likeness of a laughing boy.
Thy temples crown'd with op'ning flow'rs,
The late produce of vernal show'rs;
Around thy shoulders let there be
An azure mantle light and free;
Part shall thy graceful body bind,
And part shall loosely flow behind;
With thee let soft breezes bring
Choicest odours of the spring.

Frolic, frisky, wanton, gay,
Round and round thee let them play;
Toss thy garment high in air;
Wave thy loose luxuriant hair,
Or court the flow'rs that crown thy head
Enliv'ning sweets around to spread.

As thou thus approach'st me nigher
Let me hear the warbling lyre;
Graceful use the springy quill,
Touch it with superior skill;
But not to such soft languid airs,
Soothing sorrows, soothing cares,
With which the silly singing swain
Proclaims imaginary pain.
But strike me up sounds brisk and gay,
Sounds that may steal my soul away;
Make a soft glow of gladness rise,
And show thee sparkling in mine eyes.

Thus attend me whilst I stray;
Wild as fancy leads the way,
Over valley, hill, and plain
To the ocean's wild domain:
O'er the wild seas far extending
Let me see the world's arch bending,
And behold with wond'ring eye
The rounded globe, the meeting sky;
Where the white clouds swimming low
Drink the waters as they go;
Where the sun soft dews and rain
Exhales to shed on earth again;
Whence skim the dusky shades away
Before the splendid source of day;
Or where the silver queen of night,
First tips the trembling deep with light.

Or let me stray through the waving groves
Where the turtle cooes her loves.

Where the linnet's warbling lay
Still attends my flow'ry way;
And the lark's melodious song
Charms me as I go along:
Or let me pause and view the scene,
The blooming vales, the hillocks green;
The stream, that winding in meanders,
Thro' the tufted meadow wanders;
The fields where flocks in safety stray,
And harmless lambkins sport and play.

Behold far off, with roaming eye,
Between two oaks a cot I spy,
Where Darby sits beside the door,
Nor envies kings their royal store:
Whilst Joan, a matron staid and sage,
Remains the comfort of his age;
And Phillis near, with voice so sweet,
Phillis their hand-maid, spruce and neat,
Cheers their old hearts with merry song,
And spins and sings the whole day long.

And here beneath a friendly shade
The am'rous swain is careless laid:
On oaten pipe he loves to play
And wear the tedious hours away;
Till Dolly leaves her flock behind
Her faithful Thyrsis here to find:
And there behold with anxious look
The wiley shepherd baits his hook:
The sportive fish, that nimbly glide
And cut with silver fins the tide,

Caught by his art, now helpless lie,
And flutter, pant, and gasp and die.

Thus let me pass the summer days
In blithsome scenes and jocund ease:
But when bleak winter comes amain,
With all his sullen vap'ry train,
Abroad his snowy mantle spreads,
And rattles hail stones o'er our heads;
Then, when the groves delight no more
Nor songsters warble as before,
But ev'ry verdant shelter's lost,
Nipt by the blasting wind and frost;
Soon as the stream thro' flow'ry ways
No more in pleasing murmurs strays,
But firmly bound to either side
In icy chains, forgets to glide;
Quick let me shun the horrid sight,
And to the city take my flight;
Where mirth knows one continual round
And pleasures ever gay abound:
Attend me, joy, attend me there,
And let thy presence banish care.
Oh! lead me where the chearful fire
Doth burn, and jest and wit inspire;
Whilst the slow revolving night
Leaves ample room for long delight.
Meanwhile let Bacchus, jolly boy!
Be found thy bon-companion, joy:
Let num'rous friends surround the hearth,
Devoted all to glee and mirth;

Where never sorrow dare appear,
Or thought intense, or gloomy care:
But all airy light and free—
Glad vot'ries all to jollity:
Whilst wit doth still with laughter join,
And open hearts are caus'd by wine.

Or whilst the rigid winter yields,
Prospects of ice and snowy fields,
Soon as the hasty short-liv'd day
In the red west withdraws her ray,
And glitt'ring stars with feeble light,
Bedeck the sable garb of night.

Quick to the ball-room, joy, repair,
For thou wilt hardly miss me there;
Where the promiscuous sparkling throng
The gayly jocund scene prolong:
Where art with native beauty joins,
And each victorious fair one shines
In all the pomp, in all the show,
That dress can give and mirth bestow.
Here in full glory may be seen
Zaphyria riv'ling beauty's queen;
Around her press the less'ning throng
To hear the music of her tongue
And whilst in Celia's robes we find
A noble air, a taste refin'd;
More pow'rful charms her features wear,
For Cupid keeps his revels there:

Soft blushes in her cheeks arise,
And love looks languid in her eyes.

Meanwhile gay wit the time beguiles,
With humours quaint and simp'ring smiles.
Dick flaunts it in his tinsel'd coat,
And Ned speaks tender lines by rote;
Chloe with blushes seems to hear
Her love-sick Damon sighing near;
Whilst Mira both their thoughts descries,
And reads soft souls in tell-tale eyes.

But hark! the music's sudden sound
Spreads universal gladness round;
Joy lightens quick in ev'ry face,
An instant buz fills all the place:
And now prepared on either hand,
The beaux and belles in order stand:
And now they trip the merry dance,
And to quick movements smoothly glance.
Each fair her partner leads astray,
Thro' a long labyrinthian way;
Each swain his flying fair pursues,
Who still the pleasing toil renews.

Me the shrill soaring sounds inspire,
With transports that can rise no higher;
My body skims along the floor,
I feel my willing feet no more:
The music lends me wings; and I
In waving motions seem to fly:

And beaux and belles and tapers bright,
Swim undistinguish'd in my sight.

If such thy pleasures, smiling joy,
Oh! may'st thou e'er my mind employ;
Dawn in my breast perpetual day,
And chase intruding care away.

IL PENSEROSO.

Vanish mirth, and vanish joy,
Airy pleasures quickly cloy;
Hence all ye bacchanalian rout,
And wine, and jest, and noisy shout;
And quips, and cranks, and gay grimace,
And wit, that wears a double face.
Hence ev'ry kind of jollity,
For you have no delights for me.
But welcome, welcome, melancholy,
Thou goddess sage, demure, and holy!
Exalt thy ever musing head,
And quit, oh! quit, thy sleepless bed!
With languid looks, and anxious eyes,
Divinest melancholy rise!

And thou, oh Smith! my more than friend,
To whom these artless lines I send:
Once more thy wonted candour bring,
And hear the muse thou taught'st to sing:
The muse that strives to win thy ear,
By themes thy soul delights to hear:
And loves, like thee, in sober mood,
To meditate on just and good:

Whilst melancholy sooths to rest
Each tumult rising in the breast.

Exalted themes! divinest maid!
Sweet melancholy, raise thy head!
With languid look, oh! quickly come,
And lead me to thy hermit home:
There let thy sorrow soothing reign,
Detain me long in pensive strain;
Exalt my thoughts, possess my soul,
Enlarge my views, and seize me whole.
Oh! give me thy delights to know,
The heart that bleeds for human woe:
The virtuous throb, the grief-swoln eye,
The falling tear, and deep-drawn sigh.

Exalted themes! divinest maid!
Sweet melancholy, raise thy head!
With languid look, oh! quickly come:
And lead me to thy hermit home.
Or be thou with me whilst I rove
Thro' yonder dark untrodden grove,
Where the moon is rarely seen
Glimm'ring thro' the dusky green;
Whilst an awful silence reigns
O'er valleys, hills, and distant plains:
Nothing but the night-bird's cry,
Echoing thro' the vaulted sky;
Nothing but the ceaseless rill
Murm'ring o'er its pebbles still:
Or the distant falling flood

Shakes the silence of the wood.
There I'll wander till there's found,
Stretch'd upon the leafy ground,
An oak, which many a summer's day
Hath crumbled in a slow decay;
There down upon its mossy bed
In listless length I'll lean my head;
While the small worm that gnaws its heart,
Shall music to my soul impart.

Or let me in some crazy boat,
Along the wat'ry surface float;
Leaning pensive o'er its side,
Let me view the rippling tide;
Whilst Cynthia's cold declining rays,
Who now but half her orb displays,
On the clear bosom of the deep,
In mild composure seems to sleep.

But hark! what voice so loud and shrill
From yonder dark romantic hill,
Strikes sudden on my startled ear,
And warbles forth in ditties clear?
'Tis her's —that bird well known to fame,
The fond repeater of her name—
Proceed, sweet bird, I love thy strain,
Encreasing still the solemn scene:
I'll sit attentive to thy note,
Till Cynthia's latest rays go out.

Then on the margin of a stream,
I'll lay me silent, think, and dream;
Where no pale glimpse of borrow'd light
Breaks through the drowsy noon of night:
And stars in vain with feeble ray,
Attempt to give a doubtful day:
While clouds far off low low'ring rise,
Possessing first the nether skies;
Thence lazy lab'ring to the poll,
Up the steep arch their vengeance roll,
Black as the purpose of a guilty soul.

Here retir'd from noise and folly,
Sober visag'd Melancholy!
On a rustling rushy bed,
With thee I'll lean the languid head;
And in the dimpled tide descry
The gath'ring horrors of the sky;
See the stars dancing as they go,
And view the other heav'n below:
Whilst from behind the bull-rush near,
The frog's hoarse-cadenc'd voice I hear;
Whose oft repeated hollow sound,
A pleasing sadness spreads around.
But hark! rude rustling thro' the trees,
A sudden unexpected breeze,
Swift bursting from the darksome wood,
Shakes the smooth surface of the flood;
Then slow I raise my downcast eye,
To gaze the drear presageful sky,

Where clouds high heap'd, and swimming low,
Hang heavy on night's awful brow.
Around a gloomy silence reigns,
Hush'd is each throat thro' hills and plains:
The stars but now that shone so bright,
Slide swift and vanish out of sight.
The rapid storm comes on apace,
The heav'ns wear one distracted face;
And ruder blasts unbounded rove
In fullen murmurs thro' the grove—
Down yonder dreadful depth of sky,
In ragged sheets the light'nings fly;
Peals following peals hiss through the air,
And burst in awful ruin near:
Descending quick the heavy floods
Dance on the stream, and rattle in the woods.

Whilst thus the elements engage,
And with encreasing fury rage;
Oh! let me find some stony shed,
Where I may safely lodge my head,
T' enjoy the horrors of the storm,
And to its God due rites perform.
Beneath yon rock, whose mossy side
With fearful bend o'erhangs the tide,
Grotesque and wild, a cave I spy,
And to its shelter quickly fly.
But as I climb the grass-grown steep,
Whose darksome height juts o'er the deep;
Sent from aloft, with startled ear,
A sudden voice of woe I hear—

“Rage on thou tempest of the sky,
“Your fiercest vengeance I defy:
“A ruder storm whirls in my breast,
“And death alone can give me rest;
“My sorrows in this stream shall sleep,
“And I”—then plunges in the deep.
Nature a-while yet fond of life
Maintains with death an equal strife;
The lover strives to gain the shore,
But sinks, alas! to rise no more.

Save me, ye powers, from scenes so sad,
Scenes not of melancholy bred;
But sprung from furious wild despair,
In Stygian cell begot of care.

But might I hear true love complain,
In a more mild and temp'rate strain;
Then let my frequent feet be seen
On yonder steep romantic green;—
Along whose yellow gravelly side,
Schuylkill sweeps his lucid tide:
Where waters fall with constant roar,
Re-bellowing down the rocky shore.
Where nightly at the turf-clad grave,
In concert with the bird of eve;
Beneath the glimpses of the moon,
The hermit mourns Amelia gone:

Till reason lifts his eye to heav'n,
And mild submitting thoughts are given.

Thus, melancholy, shalt thou please,
If thou wilt find me scenes like these:
Thus may'st thou e'er my mind employ,
And banish ev'ry lighter joy.

But when the summer scenes are lost,
Welcome winter! welcome frost!
Then I'll spend the long, long night,
By the lamp's pale and glimm'ring light:
Creeping nigher still and nigher
To the half extinguish'd fire,
Where midst the glowing coals I view
Lambent flames of livid blue:
Or listen to the crackling tread
Of heavy foot on snowy bed:
While howling blasts around me rage,
And wind, and snow, and hail, engage;
And through a crevice in the wall,
Boreas whistles shrill and small;
And the doors, by time grown weak,
On their iron hinges creak:
There I'll muse on stories old,
By a toothless matron told;
Of a tall, wan, and slender sp'rit,
Stalking in the dead of night;
Whose long trailing winding sheet
Flows luxuriant round his feet:
Gaping wounds all o'er him bleed,
To disclose some horrid deed:

With beck'ning hands he seems to say,
“Haste to my grave, come, come away!”

Thus should my fancy ever find
Some dreary scene to fill my mind;
And thus I'd sit with fixed eye,
To see the crumbling embers die,
Fearing to turn to either side,
Lest there the horned spectres glide:
Till morn, slow peeping from on high,
Should twinkle with unwelcome eye;
Then would I shun th' intruding ray,
And hide me from the garish day;
Darkling to bed would silent creep,
Hush'd by the howling winds to sleep.

He was the author's preceptor.

A night-bird, vulgarly called the Whipper-will.

Alluding to the affecting story of Theodore and Amelia, in the first number of the Hermit.—

Vide Amer. Mag. for October, 1757.

A MORNING HYMN.

I.

Arise! and see the glorious sun
Mount in the eastern sky:
See with what majesty he comes,
What splendor striks the eye!

II.

Life, light, and heat he spreads abroad
In ever bounteous streams;
This day shall joyful myriads own
The influence of his beams.

III.

How fresh the healthful morning air!
What fragrance breaths around!
New lustre paints each op'ning flow'r
New verdure cloaths the ground.

III.

No ruffling storms of wind or rain
Disturb the calm serene:

But gentle nature far abroad
Displays her softest scene.

V.

Thro' chequer'd groves and o'er the plains
Refreshing breezes pass,
And play with ev'ry wanton leaf,
And wave the slender grass.

VI.

See yonder silver gliding stream;
The sun's reflected ray,
Doth in its wat'ry bosom sport,
And on its surface play.

VII.

The trees that shade its flow'ry banks,
Are nourish'd by the flood;
Whilst from their branches songsters sweet,
Re-echo thro' the wood.

VIII.

They with their little warbling throats,
Salute the rising day;
And in untaught, but pleasing strains
Their grateful homage pay.

IX.

Oh! let us then with souls sincere
Adore that pow'r Divine!
Who makes that orb move thus complete,
Who makes his rays to shine.

X.

Who causes ev'ry rising day
In beauty to return;
And bids the sun's meridian height
With brighter glories burn.

XI.

Who morning, noon, and evening too,
Has with his blessing blest;
And kindly gives the night's still shades
For wearied man to rest.

AN ELEGY.

ON THE DEATH OF Mrs. JANE WILCOCKS.

From the bright glories of celestial day,
Where hosts angelic, rang'd in vast array,
Salute thy soul, and with seraphic breath
Calm the rude horrors of the recent death;
Blest shade look down, my mournful accents hear,
Oh! see me shed the the tender parting tear!
Too soon, alas! the best of friends I mourn;
To soon with cypress deck thy silent urn;
Too soon my muse employs her softest lays,
To paint my grief, and to attempt thy praise.
Oh! warm my bosom whilst thy worth I sing;
Oh! teach my hand to touch the plaintive string.
Mournful the subject, mournful be my song,
And let soft sorrows each sad line prolong;
All joy, all comfort, from my soul is fled,
Since thou art number'd with the sleeping dead.
By moon light oft I lonely seek the plain,
Sooth my distress, and fondly nurse my pain;

There muse on scenes I've past with thee before,
And weep to think those scenes can be no more.
How oft in pleas'd attention have I hung,
While wisdom roll'd harmonious from thy tongue!
In precepts form'd to guide my heedless youth,
Thro' the bright paths of ever radiant truth.
Such were the virtues that adorn'd thy breast,
To know thee well, was to esteem thee best:
Heav'n to the sweetness of thy sex had join'd,
And active spirit, a heroic mind;
A woman soft, as far as softness can,
In noble resolution more than man.
Religion pure thy spotless bosom fir'd,
And all thy actions, all thy thoughts inspired:
And yet thy soul would ever turn aside
With just disdain from ostentatious pride;
Whatever fortune Heav'n design'd, 'twas thine,
A bright example in that sphere to shine.
'Twas thine to grace each varying state of life,
The tend'rest mother, and the fondest wife;
Faithful in friendship, true to ev'ry trust,
And to thy God, thyself, and neighbour just;
As far, at least, as mortal powers can go,
For strict perfection dwells not here below.
Long hadst thou liv'd to bless thy weeping friends,
Long hadst thou liv'd for many a glorious end.
If Pollio's ghost had not forbid thy stay;
His beck'ng ghost invited thee away.
Pollio the wise, the generous, and the young,
Whose early fate the sorrowing muse hath sung.

What tho' thy body moulders into dust,
Thy spirit joins him mid th' encircling just.
E'en now I see thee in those heav'nly plains,
Where perfect bliss, and peace eternal reigns;
Where pain and sorrow can no more annoy,
But thy soul drinks of never ending joy:
Where all the bitterness of grief is o'er,
And death's cold pangs shall agonize no more:
There shalt thou listen to the heav'nly sound
Of cherubim and seraph chaunting round;
In songs celestial thou shalt there adore,
Him that shall last when time shall be no more.

Her son, Mr. William Wilcock's was the occasion of hers.

VERSES

Inscribed to the officers of the 35th regiment on their embarkation for the expedition against Louisbourg.

Now warmer suns, once more bid nature smile,
The new-born spring peeps from the teaming soil:
From ice the streams, the fields from snow are free,
And blossoms swell on every pregnant tree:
The softened season melts in sudden show'rs,
And April all her flow'ry treasures pours;
Well might I sing the early warbling lay
Of rural songsters at the dawn of day;
The riv'let winding thro' the long drawn vale,
The new cloth'd mountain, the green tufted dale;
Or shepherd's pipe, that in melodious strains,
Welcomes the spring to valleys, hills and plains.
But these I leave, and for the aspiring muse,
A nobler theme, a loftier subject choose.
This is the season whose warm rays inspire,
Heroic bosoms with a martial fire:
To war's alarms all softer pleasures yield,
And ev'ry Briton burns to take the field.

The drums loud beat, the fife's shrill soaring lay,
The trumpet's clangor, the dread cannon's play;
All, all conspire to bid the heroes go
And thunder vengeance on the daring foe.
Ye who have roll'd the winter months away,
In scenes of pleasure and in pastimes gay;
At home endow'd with ev'ry art to please,
Of free politeness and becoming ease;
Abroad, the noble champions of our cause,
Protectors of our liberties and laws.

Long have you known the gently thrilling fires
Which beauty kindles and which love inspires;
Long have enjoy'd the graces of the fair,
To please and to be pleas'd was all your care:
Far other transports now your bosoms warm,
Far other glories your ambition charm.—
Go, seek for conquest where loud tumults reign,
Where death runs liquid o'er the impurpled plain;
Where victor's shouts, and vanquish'd warriors cries
In clouds of smoke promiscuously arise,
And undistinguish'd reach the vaulted skies:
Where desolation stalks the tragic field,
Where Britons conquer, and where Frenchmen yield.

See on the surface of that rolling tide
Fast moor'd the proud expecting navies ride:
They loose their streamers from each top mast height,
And spread their wings, impatient for the fight;
Eager thro' seas, to waft you hence away,
Where laurels strew the field, and honours crown the day.

Oh! may indulgent heav'n assistance to lend!
Oh! may success Britannia's arms attend:
Let ev'ry sword a keen destruction wear;
Each well aim'd spear a pointed vengeance bear;
And may each heroe, that we send from home,
Back to our wishing arms a glorious conqueror come.

SONG.

I.

Hear, heav'nly goddess, queen of love!
A heart that owns thy fire;
Let my distress thy pity move,
And grant my fond desire.

II.

Far absent from my soul's delight,
I languish and complain:
In tender accents day and night,
I sooth my secret pain.

III.

Pensive, I seek the lonely bow'r,
Where to my cheated view,
False fancy, by her magic pow'r,
Doth former scenes renew.

IV.

And Strephon's look, and Strephon's smile,
Please my deluded eye;
His fancied presence, for a while,
Affords a short-liv'd joy.

V.

Since then no longer, as before,
His converse I enjoy;
Thus let my Strephon ever more
My faithful mind employ.

VI.

Whene'er soft sleep shall over me
Its happy influence shed,
Oh! let his airy image be
Still hov'ring round my bed!

VII.

With ev'ry native charm and grace
Adorn the lovely youth;
And in the sweetness of his face,
Paint constancy and truth.

On THE LATE SUCCESSFUL EXPEDITION AGAINST LOUISBOURG.

At length 'tis done, the glorious conflict's done,
And British valour hath the conquest won:
Success our arms, our heroes, honour crowns,
And Louisbourg an English monarch owns!
Swift, to the scene where late the valiant fought,
Waft me, ye muses, on the wings of thought—
That awful scene, where the dread god of war
O'er fields of death roll'd his triumphant ear:
There yet, with fancy's eye, methinks I view
The pressing throng, the fierce assault renew:
With dauntless front advance, and boldly brave
The cannon's thunder, and th' expecting grave.

On yonder cliff, high hanging o'er the deep,
Where trembling joy climbs the darksome steep;
Britannia lonely sitting, from afar
Waits the event, and overlooks the war;
Thence, roll her eager wand'ring eyes about,
In all the dread anxiety of doubt;
Sees her fierce sons, her foes with vengeance smite,
Grasp deathless honours, and maintain the fight.
Whilst thus her breast alternate passions sway,
And hope and fear wear the slow hours away.

See! from the realms of everlasting light,
A radiant form wings her aerial flight.
The palm she carries, and the crown she wears,
Plainly denote 'tis Victory appears:
Her crimson vestment loosely flows behind,
The clouds her chariot, and her wings the wind:
Trumpets shrill sounding all around her play,
And laurell'd honours gild her azure way—
Now she alights—the trumpets cease to sound,
Her presence spreads expecting silence round:—
And thus she speaks; whilst from her heav'nly face
Effulgent glories brighten all the place—

“Britannia, hail! thine is at length the day,
“And lasting triumphs shall thy cares repay;
“Thy godlike sons, by this, their names shall raise,
“And tongues remote shall joy to swell their praise.
“I to the list'ning world will soon proclaim
“Of Wolfe's brave deeds, the never-dying fame,
“And swell with glory Amherst's patriot name.
“Such are the heroes that shall ever bring
“Wealth to their country, honour to their king:
“Opposing foes, in vain attempt to quell
“The native fires that in such bosoms dwell.
“To thee, with joy, this laurel I resign,
“Smile, smile, Britannia! victory is thine.
“Long may it flourish on thy sacred brow!
“Long may thy foes a forc'd subjection know!
“See, see their pow'r, their boasted pow'r decline!
“Rejoice Britannia! victory is thine.”

Give your loose canvas to the breezes free,
Ye floating thund'rers, bulwarks of the sea:
Go, bear the joyful tidings to your king,
And, in the voice of war, declare 'tis victory you bring:
Let the wild croud that catch the breath of fame,
In mad huzzas their ruder joy proclaim:
Let their loud thanks to heav'n in flames ascend,
While mingling shouts the azure concave rend.
But let the few, whom reason makes more wise,
With glowing gratitude uplift their eyes:
Oh! let their breasts dilate with sober joy.
Let pious praise their hearts and tongues employ;
To bless our God with me let all unite,
He guides the conq'ring sword, e governs in the fight.

The English forces landed at Louisbourg, June 8, 1758, and entered the city in triumph on the 27th of July following.

A PROLOGUE

SPOKEN BY Mr. LEWIS HALLAM, AT THE OPENING OF A THEATRE AT Philadelphia.

To bid reviving virtue raise her head,
And far abroad her heav'nly instance shed;
The soul by bright examples to inspir'd,
And kindle in each breast celestial fire:
For injur'd innocence to waken fear;
For suff'ring virtue swell the gen'rous tear;
Vice to expose in each assum'd disguise,
And bid the mist to vanish from your eyes,
With keener passion, that you may detest
Her hellish form, howe'er like virtue drest:
The muse to cherish, genius to inspire,
Bid fancy stretch the wing, and wit take fire—
For these we come—for these erect our stage,
And shew the manners of each clime and age:
For these we come—oh! may your smiles attend
The pleasing task, and all our toils befriend.
—Away ye senseless, ye whom nought can move,
Vice to abhor, or virtue to approve;
Whose souls could ne'er enjoy the thought sublime,
Whose ears ne'er taste the muse's flowing rhime.

But ye whose breasts the pow'rs of softness know,
Who long have learnt to feel another's woe;

Nor blush to heave the sympathetic sigh,
Or drop the pious tear from pity's eye;
Attend our work, and may you ever find
Something to please and to improve the mind:
That as each diff'rent flow'r that decks the field
Does to the bee mellistuous sweetness yield:
So may each scene some useful moral show;
From each performance sweet instruction flow.
Such is our aim—your kind assent we ask,
That once obtain'd, we glory in the task.

EPILOGUE FOR TAMERLANE,

SPOKEN BY Mrs. DOUGLAS.

Once more, as custom hath ordain'd, I come
To speak the epilogue, and learn our doom:
Oh! may you be to our endeavours kind,
And let us hope your glad applause to find!

The moral of our play I need not tell,
You who observ'd it sure must know it well.
In all her glory virtue stood confest,
With just rewards and happy triumphs blest:
Whilst sullen tyranny no more to rise,
Low in the dust, debas'd and vanquish'd lies.
Who but abhors a Bajazet to see?
Who would not wish a Tamerlane to be?
Oh! lovely virtue, such thy charms appear,
That e'en thy greatest foes thy name revere!
And you, ye fair! in bright Arpasia find
Merit well worthy to engage the mind.
How firmly fix'd was her unshaken love,
Which neither threats nor offer'd crowns could move?
Too few, I fear, are like Arpasia found,
For such heroic constancy renown'd.
—But hark!—methinks I hear a voice this way
Which seems, in angry accents, thus to say:

“Why, what a stupid epilogue is this:
“Let's stop her serious prating with a hiss.”—
Good sir, have patience, I shall soon have done;
But one short sentence more and I'll be gone.

Hail happy people! thus with freedom blest,
By no insulting Bajazet opprest!
Fair virtue here shall fix her radiant throne,
And ignorance and vice in setters grone.
Here polish'd learning shall adorn the mind,
And merit ever due respect shall find;
Whilst British liberty—celestial sound,
Bids ev'ry heart be gay, and nature smile around.

A PROLOGUE

IN PRAISE OF MUSIC—SPOKEN BY Mr. Hallam,

At a play given for purchasing an organ for the college-ball in Philadelphia.

With grateful joy encircling crouds we view,
Well pleas'd the friends of music are not few;
Such worthy patrons may it ever find,
And rule with gentle sway the human mind.

When the loud organ fills the sacred choir,
The pious soul is wrapt in holy fire;
The trembling isles the solemn airs resound,
And list'ning angels hang attentive round;
Harmonious strains with high devotion join,
And sacred themes make music more divine.

Another joy delights yon love-sick swain,
Soft sounds alone can sooth his am'rous pain,
And ev'ry warble thrills through ev'ry vein.

Whilst the bold warrior hails the loud alarms,
When drums and trumpets call to arms! to arms!
His eager soul imbibes the martial strain,
And hastes to press the yielding foe again.

Such pow'r hath music o'er the human soul,
Music the fiercest passions can controul;
Touch the nice springs that sway a feeling heart,
Sooth ev'ry grief, and joy to joy impart.
Sure virtue's friends and music are the same,
And blest that person is that owns the sacred flame.

CHARITY, A POEM.

Delivered by the author at a public commencement in the college of Philadelphia, May 1, 1760.

To grace the pomp of this auspicious day,
Once more with joy, we swell th' advent'rous lay.
Oh! thou, who oft from yon Pierian height,
Mid æther pure directs thy easy flight!
Diffusive ardor to my song impart,
And with thy fire dilate my glowing heart!
Say, who is she that first in virtue's train,
With grace celestial treads th' ideal plain?
Her awful beauty dignifies the place,
And modest joy illumines all her face;
Around her form effulgent glories play,
Mild as the lustre of the dawning day—
'Tis Charity, th' enraptur'd muse replies,
'Tis Charity, bright offspring of the skies.

On the proud top of that aspiring height,
Stands Ostentation's fane, expos'd to sight;
The front, whose summits pierce the vaulted sky,
Gay gilded glitter to the distant eye;
O'er the rich portal, in a golden glare,
The name of Charity is written fair—

'Tis all deception—charity we know
Loves not to dwell mid pomp and empty show.
There rural joys in vain we hope to find,
'Tis all a barren wilderness behind;
No dying music melts upon the ear,
And not one rose perfumes the sickly air.

But down in yonder vale, recluse from sight,
An humble dwelling stands, seat of delight—
Where soft ey'd Charity retir'd is found,
'Mid thousand sweets that circle her around.
No high wrought arches lead the pompous way,
No gilded domes outshine the face of day;
A secret path enrich'd with many a sweet
Direct her vot'ries to the blest retreat;
There, rural beauties all the senses please,
And liquid music floats in ev'ry breeze.

Happy, thrice happy, he whose pious breast
Detains soft Charity, a glowing guest!
Whose lib'ral hand, as far as pow'r is giv'n,
Spreads blessings round him, like the hand of heav'n:
Who glows with love, gen'rous and unconfin'd,
Whose bosom burns for good of all mankind:
Who rears the head of virtue in distress,
Rejoicing ever in the pow'r to bless.
How oft, in sorrows clouded, may we find
The shining traces of a gen'rous mind?
How oft doth want and ignorance control
The struggling efforts of a mighty soul?
See yonder youth, whom inauspicious fate
Hath sunk obscurely in a low estate:

What tho' by birth, no titles, wealth, or fame,
With borrow'd glories deck his humble name?
Yet nature's courteous hand with care most kind,
Hath form'd his body, and enrich'd his mind:
Life glows as warm in ev'ry throbbing part,
And blood as rich flows round his beating heart.
Fast bound in ignorance, by want supprest,
An active soul slept silent in his breast.
Oh! pious Charity: to call it forth,
And bid it rise to dignity and worth;
To warm his breast with sentiments refin'd,
And dawn the day of knowledge on his mind:
To teach him virtue's dictates to pursue,
And place the rocks of error in his view.
Some such there are, without whose friendly care,
Long had his seeds of glory slumber'd there:
Without whose bounty all his pow'rs had been
The slaves of ignorance, perhaps of sin.
Of deeds like these, oh! who shall sing the praise,
Weak is the muse, and feeble are her lays—
But angels silver-tongu'd from heav'n shall part
To whisper blessings to the bounteous heart:
And those who justly Charity regard,
Will find that virtue is her own reward.

The trustees of the college, who maintain a charity school for 70 poor children.

DESCRIPTION OF A CHURCH.

As late beneath the hallow'd roof I trod,
Where saints in holy rapture seek their God;
Where heart stung sinners suing Heav'n for grace,
With tears repentant consecrate the place.
Oh! how my soul was struck with what I saw,
And shrunk within me in religious awe:

The massy walls, which seem'd to scorn the rage
Of battering tempest and of mouldering age;
In long perspective stretch'd, till breadth and height
Were almost lost in distance from the sight;
With monumental decorations hung,
They spoke mortality with silent tongue.
There, sorrowing seraphs heav'nward lift their eyes,
And little cherubs weep soft elegies.
I trod—and started at the mighty noise;
The hollow pavement lifted up its voice;
The swelling arch receiv'd the rising sound,
Responsive to the stroke the walls around,
And sent it murm'ring to the the vaults around,
Thro' lengthen'd aisles prolong'd the solemn sound.

Far in the west, and noble to the sight,
The gilded organ rears its tow'ring height:

And hark! methinks I from its bosom hear,
Soft issuing sounds that steal upon the ear
And float serenely on the liquid air.
Now by degrees more bold and broad they grow,
And riot loosely thro' the isles below;
'Till the full organ lifts its utmost voice,
And my heart shudders at the powerful noise:
Like the last trump, one note is heard to sound
That all the massy pillars tremble round:
The firm fixt building shivers on its base,
And vast vibration fills th' astonish'd place:
The marble pavements seem to feel their doom,
And the bones rattle in each hollow tomb.

But now the blast harmonious dies away,
And tapers gently in a fine decay:
The melting sounds on higher pinions fly,
And seem to fall soft oozing from on high;
Like evening dew they gently spread around
And shed the sweetness of heart-thrilling sound;
'Till grown too soft, too fine for mortal ear,
The dying strains dissolve in distant air.
Methought I heard a flight angels rise,
Most sweetly chaunting as they gain'd the skies:
Methought I heard their less'ning sound decay
And fade and melt and vanish quite away.

Hail heav'n born music! by thy pow'r we raise
Th' uplifted soul to acts of highest praise:
Oh! I would die with music melting round,
And float to bliss upon a sea of sound.

TO CELIA,

ON HER WEDDING DAY.

Whilst Heav'n with kind propitious ray,
Smiles, Celia, on thy nuptial day,
And ev'ry sympathising breast
With transport glows to see thee blest;
Whilst present joys the hours beguile,
And future prospects seem to smile.
Shall not my muse her tribute bring
And gladly touch the trembling string?
I know 'tis usual at such times
To pay respect in pompous rhymes;
To bid the whole celestial race
With brightest glories fill the place,
And from their mansions hasten down
The nuptial rites with bliss to crown:
As if each goddess might be said
To be the poet's waiting maid:
But I who have no power at all,
Such high divinities to call,
Must lay those stratagems aside
And with plain fable treat the bride.

As Cupid thro' the azure way
Did late with wand'ring pinion stray,
The little urchin chanc'd to spy;
His master Hymen passing by;
Surpris'd with conscious guilt and shame,
Knowing his conduct much to blame,
With nimble haste he strove to shroud
His presence in a fleecy cloud.
But Hymen saw, nor could he fail
To see a wing—oh! piteous tale!
Peep from behind the misty veil.
Th' observing god with eager joy,
Rush'd on and seiz'd th' affrighted boy.—
“Well, master Cupid, are you caught
“At last, he cry'd, I almost thought
“You, far from hence, had taken flight,
“And quite forsook the realms of light;
“For whereso'er I choose to stray,
“I seldom meet you in my way.—
“Wherefore so shy? since well you know
“It is not very long ago
“Since Jove in council did decree,
“Yourself and services to me;
“That it might ever be your care,
“To warm those breasts whom I would pair
“With mutual love, and bless my bonds,
“By mingling hearts with joining hands.
“Instead of which, you rambling go,
“And sad confusions make below:

“Whilst my softest bondage often falls,
“Where custom points or int'rest calls.
“But Jove himself shall quickly hear,
“How much his dictates you revere;
“Yet e'er we part, 'tis my desire,
“You kindle love's celestial fire
“In the fair Celia's peaceful breast,
“And make her am'rous Strephen blest.”
With piteous tone, and tear-full eye,
Thus did the little god reply:
“This, Hymen, this I must deny,
“Do—any other service choose,
“There's nought but this I can refuse;
“I have my word and honour giv'n,
“And firmly sworn by earth and Heav'n,
“That love shall Celia ne'er molest
“No dart of mine e'er wound her breast.
Hymen, first made an angry pause,
Then spake—“Thou traitor to my cause,
“Is't thus with mortals you conspire,
“To break my torch and quench my fire;
“I oft have wonder'd why that maid
“My soft encircling bands delay'd;
“The wonder ceases now; I find
“That you and Celia have combin'd,
“My pow'r celestial to despise
“And rob me of my pairest prize.
“But Celia soon in wedlock's chain
“Shall shine the fairest of my train:

“Virtue her days with peace shall crown,
“And I will show'r my blessings down;
“Her happy state shall others move,
“To seek the joys of weded love.”
Much would the weeping boy have said;
But Hymen urg'd, and love obey'd:
A shaft he chose from out the rest,
And sunk it deep in Celia's breast.
Soft thro' her frame the poison crept;
And Hymen laugh'd and Cupid wept.
Then upwards, far from human sight,
They wing'd their way in speedy flight,
Wrapt in a glorious blaze of light.

A PARAPHRASE.

ON THE 107th PSALM.

With choral voice, oh! let the nations join
And bless the Lord in harmony divine:
His tender mercy over all extends,
And vast creation on his pow'r depends.
Let those, with grateful hearts, his goodness tell
And to his praise the solemn anthem swell;
Whom he vouchsaf'd with kind directing hand,
To lead in safety from a hostile land;
At once with hunger and with thirst opprest,
The fainting soul pin'd in the panting breast.
In deep distress they call'd on God most high,
Who with his wonted mercy heard their cry:
The heav'ns did mans for their food distill,
And from the rock burst forth the limpid rill:
From desert wilds, where destitute they roam,
He brings at length the wearied wand'rers home;
They conquer, by his aid, the nations round,
And fill a land with cheerful plenty crown'd.

Oh! that the people, with united voice,
Would in the mercies of the Lord rejoice;
His holy name in hallelujahs bless,
And all the wonders of his pow'r confess:
To hungry souls he doth his joy impart,
And with sweet comfort soothe the wounded heart.
But those who light esteem'd his proffer'd love,
Did soon the terrors of his vengeance prove;
His injur'd justice will o'ertake his foes,
And punish all who dare his pow'r oppose;
Long in a dungeon's dreary depth they lay,
Shut from the radiance of the chearful day;
Where gall'ng chains their captive limbs confin'd,
And wasting anguish prey'd upon the mind.
But when to heav'n they lift their ardent pray'r,
And all the miseries of their state declare;
Sincerely swell the penitential sigh,
And for offended mercy loudly cry:
The God of mercy sends a quick relief,
And songs of triumph soon dispel their grief:
He breaks their bands, wipes all their tears away,
And on their darkness pours reviving day.

Oh! that the nations, with united voice,
Would in the mercies of the Lord rejoice;
His holy name in hallelujahs bless,
And all the wonders of his pow'r confess!

The guilty wretch is punish'd for his sin;
A wounded conscience tortures him within;

With growing horror, aggravated fear,
He sees the stroke of death already near:
Then, if to God his sorrowing soul returns,
And with contrition deep her trespass mourns,
The ear of pity waits on his distress,
And ready pardon will repentance bless:
The hand of mercy stops the hand of death,
The voice of love recalls his fleeting breath.

Oh! that the nations, with united voice,
Would in the mercies of the Lord rejoice;
His holy name in Hallelujahs bless,
And all the wonders of his pow'r confess!

Those who in ships pursue their dangerous way
Thro' the vast empire of the trackless sea,
Behold the pow'r of Heav'n's almighty king,
And with a fearful awe his praises sing.
At his tremendous word the billows rise,
And clouds glide swiftly thro' the floating skies;
Sulphureous lightnings dart from pole to pole,
And o'er the burden'd æther heavy thunders roll;
The howling tempest seems to shake the globe,
Whilst troubled nature wears her darkest robe:
Yet doth the little bark the tumult brave,
And on the white top of the bursting wave
Quivering she hangs—her masts the clouds divide,
And from beneath, hell opes her portals wide:
Confusion reigns o'er all the watry realm;
Th' astonish'd seamen quit the useless helm:

With growing terrors are their bosoms fill'd,
And in their veins the purple currents chill'd:
In their distress to God they lift their pray'r,
And tho' the tempest roars, the Lord will hear:
The same dread word that swell'd the boiling main,
Commands a calm, and all is smooth again;
Their terrors vanish, whilst propitious gales
Swift to the port impel their swelling sails.

Oh! that the nations with united voice,
Would in the mercies of the Lord rejoice;
His holy name in hallelujahs bless,
And all the wonders of his pow'r confess!

The fruitful land is blasted for the sin
Of the rebellious race that dwell therein:
The springs forget to flow, the clouds to pour,
Upon the parched plains their wat'ry store;
In vain the husbandman with patient toil
Provokes to plenty the unyielding soil;
The drooping plant wither'd and barren dies,
Whilst all its vegetative moisture dries.

But unexhausted plenty from the Lord
Attend on those, who by his holy word
Direct their steps—for them shall gardens grow
In desert wilds and bubbling fountains flow:
Their flocks, their herds, their vineyards shall increase,
And smiling plenty dwell with gentle peace.

Such are the blessings that await the just,
The lot of those who place in God their trust:
Then let the wise by virtue hope to prove,
The lasting mercies of his endless love:
For who can bear of guilt the secret sting,
Or dare to vengeance Heav'ns almighty king.

An ELEGY.

SACRED TO THE MEMORY OF JOSIAH MARTIN, Esq. Jun. WHO DIED IN THE ISLAND OF ANTIGUA, JUNE 1762.

'Twas evening mild—the sun's declining ray,
No longer flamed from the western sky;
But stars contended with the fading day,
And creeping twilight boded darkness nigh.
With wand'ring step, slow pace and pensive look,
I sought the silence of the darksome grove;
Where weeping sorrow swells the murm'ring brook,
And contemplation, lonely, loves to rove:
In the deep gloom the sudden sounds I hear
Of dulcet prelude from the warbling lyre;
The voice of woe stole plaintive on my ear,
And thus accorded to the trembling wire:
“Let proud ambition with her faithless throng,
As int'rest points, address the venal song;
Still in the paths of labour'd flattery toil,
And seek for virtue in a barren soil.

Let it be thine, my artless muse, to raise,
To modest merit, well deserved praise;
For goodness lost, to bid thy numbers flow,
In the smooth strains of unaffected woe,—
From blossom'd hopes, and life's most flow'ry height,
See Martin's spirit wings eternal flight;
Not wisdom, truth, and innocence combin'd,
A graceful person, an informed mind
Prevent the stroke—he meets a hasty doom;
Death shrouds his rising glories in the tomb:
Mourn then, my muse, in strains elegiac mourn,
And deck with cypress his untimely urn.

In vain for thee, beloved youth, in vain,
We strove the heights of science to attain;
Say, can I e'er forget those blissful days,
When hand in hand we trod the flow'ry maze?
Say, can I e'er forget the warmth divine
That from thy heart did in each action shine?
Each winning grace, and all thy pow'r to move
By soft persuasion, undissembled love:
Thy strength of reason passion to controul,
And the sweet temper of thy yielding soul;
Thy steady friendship, sentiments refin'd,
With all the gentle virtues of thy mind.
Oh! fate severe! just to o'ercome the toil
Of early life, and see the prospect smile
With dawning bliss;—but never to enjoy—
Too sudden shades the rising scene destroy.

'Twas thus the Prophet, by divine command,
From Pisgah's top beheld the promis'd land:
He saw—and died; for so did Heav'n ordain—
But God is just, and let not man complain.

He was fellow student with the author.

Moses.

An EPITAPH.

For AN Infant.

Sleep on, sweet babe! no dreams annoy thy rest,
Thy spirit flew unsullied from thy breast:
Sleep on, sweet innocent! nor shalt thou dread
The passing storm that thunders o'er thy head:
Thro' the bright regions of yon azure sky,
A winged seraph, now she soars on high;
Or, on the bosom of a cloud reclin'd,
She rides triumphant on the rapid wind;
Or from its source pursues the radiant day;
Or on a sun-beam, smoothly glides away;
Or mounts aerial, to her blest abode,
And sings, inspir'd, the praises of her God:
Unveiled, thence, to her extensive eye,
Nature, and Nature's Laws, expanded lie:
Death, in one moment, taught this infant more
Than years or ages ever taught before.

DISAPPOINTED LOVE.

Recitative.

High rais'd in æther, from her silver throne,
The moon in melancholy mildness shone;
Nor voice, nor sound disturb'd the mid-night hour,
Save the sad south-wind murm'ring in the bow'r;
When sable clad, with slow and pensive mien,
Narcissa lonely pass'd the dusky green:
All wan with wasting grief, forsook her bed,
And sought the silent mansions of the dead;
Her bosom heav'd with many a deep drawn sigh,
And the big tear stood trembling in her eye:
Then from her lips thus broke the voice of woe—
Then planets listen'd, and the moon mov'd slow.

Air.

Farewell to all that promis'd joy;
No flatt'ring hopes my thoughts employ;
A wounded heart bleeds in my breast,
And death alone can give me rest.

And thou, lamented youth, farewell!
With thee the smiling prospect fell;
Sad o'er thy grave, broods black despair,
For all my hopes lie buried there.

But now thy form mov'd in my sight,
I glow'd with love and dear delight;
Thy bosom burn'd with equal fire,
With equal pangs of soft desire.

But now I deck'd me for thy bride;
Elate in youth and beauty's pride,
My throbbing heart beat quick alarms,
Whilst bliss approach'd in Damon's arms.

A voice soon strikes my startled ear,
Whose dismal accents yet I hear;
Forbear, fond maid, forbear, it cries,
For Damon, thy lov'd Damon, dies.

All strength forsakes my tott'ring frame;
My tongue scarce utters Damon's name;
Prostrate I fall; my eye-balls roll,
And anguish wrings my tortur'd soul.

Yet, yet I hear the deep ton'd bell,
With minute strokes tell out his knell;
My swelling heart grows big with grief,
And not one tear vouchsafes relief.

Oh! if beneath yon pale moon's sphere,
Thy lambent spirit floats in air,

Witness my sigh's, hear me complain,
And pity my unequal'd pain.

Whilst bitter grief and pining woe,
And welcome death at last will show,
How hard their fate who ever prove
The pangs of disappointed love.

An EXERCISE.

Containing a Dialogue and Ode, sacred to the memory of his late gracious majesty George II.—Performed at the public commencement in the College of Philadelphia, May 1761.

[_]

The Ode set is music by F--- H---.

EUGENIO.
What means that look of woe, the head reclin'd,
Those folded arms with which I meet Amyntor?
That eye, which wont with love and sparkling joy,
To beam munificent on ev'ry friend;
Why bends it thus in sorrow to the ground,
As if no view could please but dust and earth?

AMYNTOR.
All things, Eugenio, are but dust and earth!
E'en kings themselves—those demi-gods enthron'd,
Rulers of empire, thunder-bolts of war,
At whose avenging nod the guilty tremble,
Nations are doom'd, and millions live or die—
E'en kings, themselves, are nought but dust and earth!

EUGENIO.
Who knows not that, Amyntor? But why damp
This festive day with such untimely lectures?

AMYNTOR.
What festive day can Britain or her sons
Now celebrate? The voice of joy is fled.
Let no rash hand with myrtle or with bay,
Or other flaunting foliage of the grove
Presume to deck these walls. Come baleful yew,
And weeping cypress, from your midnight shades!
None other wreathe but your's from hill or dale
Be pluck'd to circle academic brow.
See pale Britannia on the wave-worn shore,
Incumbent o'er her massy trident weeps;
And fond Ierne sister of her grief,
Calls from her harp sad notes of Doric strain.
From pole to pole, far as old ocean heaves
His troubled waves, and bears the British flag,
The voice of woe is heard. E'en here remote,
The awful genius of these barbarous woods,
That wont to roam from Indian height to height
With nature's self, in frolic ever new,
Tears from his hoary head his feather'd crown,
And breaks his arrows, and his quiver rends.

EUGENIO.
In mystic words, and metaphoric, strains,
Why would Amyntor strive to hide the cause
Of such unbounded sorrow?

AMYNTOR.
—No, Eugenio!
Amyntor would not hide, but speak the cause,
Could words be found to measure forth his grief,

And ease his lab'ring breast. The god-like George,
The friend of freedom, and the scourge of tyrants,
The father of his country—sleeps in dust;
Of import dreadful from Britannia's coast,
Confirm'd and full, the mournful tidings come.

EUGENIO.
Illustrious monarch! not the Roman boast,
The gen'rous Titus, joy of human kind;
Nor names of later date, William and Henry,
Or Alfred's self, shall fill a brighter page
In fame's eternal roll, than shall the name
Of gracious George. Beneath his equal sway
Oppression was not; Justice pois'd her scale;
No law was trampled, and no right deny'd:
The merchant flourish'd, and the peasant smil'd.
And, oh! my friend, to what amazing height
Of sudden grandeur did his nursing care
Up-raise these colonies; beyond whate'er
Of ancient or of modern times is told.
Prepare we then, due elegies to frame,
Such as may well accord to heart of woe.

AMYNTOR.
That work is done. Behold the goodly choir,
With voice united to the deep-ton'd note
Of swelling organ, rise in act to sing
The consecrated lay—Hark! hark! they strike!—

The dialogue by the rev. Dr. Smith.

THE ODE.

Recitative.

Why looks the visionary maid so sad,
Ah! why, Britannia, thus in sable clad?
Oh! speak the cause from whence such sorrows flow,
That, by partaking, we may ease thy woe.

Air.

Lend, lend your tears, ye virgin train,
Let music swell her softest strain!
Oh! make the solemn dirge resound,
And spread religious sorrow round—
With me the deep-felt loss deplore—
My son! my son! is now no more!

Chorus.

Then let the solemn dirge begin,
Whilst we our voices join,
To swell the tend'rest note of grief,
And mix our woe with thine.

A slow symphony.

Air.

The glorious sun, Britannia's king,
Withdraws his golden light:
His setting ray
Glides swift away,
And yields to conq'ring night.

Down in the deep and dreary tomb
His mortal part must lie;
And ev'ry bell
Now tolls his knell,
Tears flow from every eye.

Far o'er the wild and wat'ry waste,
Hear the loud cannons roar;
'Till winds convey
The sounds away,
That die along the shore.

But, lo! his sainted soul ascends
High thro' th' etherial road;
And Briton's sighs
Like incense rise,
To waft him to his God.

EUGENIO.
How soft the pow'r of music to assuage
The pangs of grief! like balm of costly price
Pour'd o'er the streaming wound. Since then, my friend,
Due tribute has been paid to royal worth,

And royal dust; it boots us not to spend
Our fleeting hours in unavailing sorrow.
See! by the bounty of all ruling heav'n,
Another George to happy Britons giv'n:
Gay youth and glory beam around his throne,
And glad Britannia claims him as her own.
Let us embrace what heav'n in kindness gives,
Since George the Second in the Third still lives.

An EXERCISE;

Containing a Dialogue and Ode, on the accession of his present gracious majesty George III.—Performed at a public commencement in the College of Philadelphia, May, 1762.

[_]

The Ode set to music by F--- H---.

LORENZO.

Enough, ye sons of science! honours meet
At your maternal shrine have now been paid.
From the fair font of Helicon divine
Pure living streams, enraptur'd, have ye drawn,
Of classic lore, and bade them copious flow,
To grace the prospects of this festive day.
Meanwhile, each patriot eye with transport gaz'd;
Each friend of worth, of science, and of man,
With cheering smiles their silent plaudit gave.

Say then, my friends, have ye no chaplets weav'd,
No jocund song prepar'd of sprightliest strain,
To crown the labours of the learned tribe,
And sooth with warblings sweet the parting ear?

EUGENIO.
Yes, my Lorenzo, grateful will we pay

All seemly tribute to this glad occasion:
Nor chaplets gay, nor song of sprightliest strain
Will we refuse. See good Amyntor's eye
Sparkles with joy, and speaks some rapt'rous theme.

AMYNTOR.
What theme more joyous, or can better suit
The glad return of this auspicious day,
Than that which occupies my present thought,
And which the faithful index of my heart
Pointed to thy discerning?—Know, Eugenio,
The joy that sports in thy Amyntor's breast,
And o'er his visage spreads this placid smile,
Springs from no other source than the loud fame
Of his young monarch's worth.—Be this our theme.

EUGENIO.
And is it thus, Amyntor? ah! how soon
To sounds of grief succeeds the voice of joy!
And gilded trappings to the garb of woe.
Far other scenes thy lab'ring breast disclos'd,
When last I met thee at these annual rites:
With visage wan, with dark and downward brow,
When royal dust receiv'd the duteous tear;
When trembled with the dirge this stately dome,
And gloom'd these hallow'd walls with wreaths funereal.

AMYNTOR.
Oh! name it not, my friend! all custom'd dues
To majesty entomb'd were then discharg'd.
To dwell desponding on the mournful theme,

Or hang like statues o'er the kingly urn,
Pale, motionless as marble; this were impious;
A censure weak and rash of heav'n's decree.
Shout then, ye favour'd race, ye sons of freedom,
Bound ev'ry heart with joy, and ev'ry breast
Pour the warm tribute of a grateful praise!
For o'er the realms of Britain reigns supreme
The darling of his people, George the Good.
Bright clust'ring round his throne the virtues stand
In meet array, obsequious at his call,
To fly, triumphant, thro' his wide domain,
And deal their salutary influence round.

LORENZO.
Thrice happy monarch! skill'd in ev'ry art
To win a nation's smile, and fix their love.
Thy youthful blossoms are the earnests sure
Of future glories to thy native land.
Hence, in the mighty rolls of British fame,
Thy reign shall shine distinguish'd mid the rest,
By deeds of valour, piety, and love.

AMYNTOR.

Nor only in the sphere of royalty,
The wise exertions of his kingly pow'r,
Doth George illustrious move: each milder virtue,
Each soft endearing scene of private life
His tender soul embraces: modest worth,
Grace unaffected, true simplicity,
With dignity combin'd, each nameless joy
That Hymen twines around his silken bands,

He meets with transport in his Charlotte's arms,
The pleasing partner of his heart and throne.

But let us not in fond and growing parley
Thus waste the day.—Begin ye choral band,
For whom the festive song hath ben prepar'd,
And with loud Pœans rend the vaulted roof.

THE ODE.

BRIGHT ascending to the skies,
See Britannia's glory rise!
Cease your sorrows, cease your fears,
Night recedes and day appears;
Another George majestic fills her throne,
And glad Britannia calls him all her own.

Chorus.

Let the tuneful chorus join,
And high their voices raise,
To celebrate in notes divine,
The youthful monarchs praise.

Air.

Rejoicing science with each polish'd art,
Beneath his reign shall with success conspire
To form the manners, humanize the heart,
And virtuous thoughts, and virtuous deeds inspire.

II.

The sweets of liberty shall care beguile,
And justice still her happy influence spread,
Religion cheer him with a sacred smile,
And bid the crown sit lightly on his head.

Chorus.

Let the tuneful chorus join,
And high their voices raise,
To celebrate in notes divine
The picas monarch's praise.

Air.

See resplendent at his side,
Joyful sits his royal bride:
Glowing youth and beauty join
To make the fair conspicuous shine:
Ev'ry virtue warms her breast—
How is Britain's monarch blest!
Unsullied bliss shall crown the royal pair,
The good and great are heav'n's peculiar care.

Chorus.

Let the tuneful chorus join,
And high their voices raise,
To celebrate in notes divine
The happy monarch's praise.

Air.

Rough war shall humbly at his feet
Her bloody laurels lay;

Him gentle peace shall kindly greet,
And smile beneath his sway.

II.

Hail! Britain, hail! these golden days;
Illustrious shalt thou shine;
For George shall gain immortal praise,
And, Britain, George is thine.
To distant time he shall extend his name,
And give thy glories to a deathless fame.

Chorus,

Let the tuneful chorus join,
And high their voices raise,
To celebrate in notes divine,
The British monarch's praise.

The dialogue by the rev. Mr. Duché.

An ODE

Designed for a public commencement in the college of Philadelphia.

Recitative.

When heav'n spreads blessings with unsparing hand,
And smiling plenty crowns the joyful land,
The happy peasants tune their rustic lay,
And back to heav'n their grateful tribute pay:
And shall not we enraptur'd snatch the lyre,
And sing to strains which thankful hearts inspire,
When heav'n consents, and men unite to bless
This seat of science with ensur'd success?

Chorus.

Rise! rise! ye sons of science, rise!
Your loudest strains employ;
With glowing fire,
Attune the lyre
To gratitude and joy.

Air.

Hail to the king! whose virtuous heart
Directs his lib'ral hand,

To stretch o'er wide extending seas,
And bless a distant land.
Oh! let the num'rous throng that daily prove
The sweet effects of his paternal love,
Unite their hearts in one accord and sing
In acclamations loud, Hail to the king!

Chorus.

Rise! rise! ye sons of science, rise!
Your loudest strains employ;
With glowing fire,
Attune the lyre
To gratitude and joy.

Air.

A gen'rous throng demands our love,
Who in a desert wild,
Heard infant science cry for help,
And nurs'd the drooping child:
Tho' men forgot, heav'n will the deed record,
And to their race extend the blest reward.

Chorus.

Rise! rise! ye sons of science, rise!
Your loudest strains employ;
With glowing fire,
Attune the lyre
To gratitude and joy.

Air.

And can the muse forget his toil,
Who compass'd sea and land
To rear the tender plant which oft
Had felt his pruning hand?
Oh! let his care and unexampled love,
Our just returns of warm affection move!

Chorus.

Rise! rise! ye sons of science, rise!
Your loudest strains employ;
With glowing fire,
Attune the lyre
To gratitude and joy.

His gracious majesty George III. who granted a brief for making a collection through the kingdoms of England, Scotland and Ireland, for the benefit of this institution.

The many benefactors who freely contributed on this occasion.

The rev. Dr. Smith, who carried about the brief and received the contributions.

SCIENCE; A POEM.

Humbly inscribed to the Trustees, Provost, Vice Provost, and Professors in the College and Academy of Philadelphia.

Doctrina sed vim promovet insitam,
Rectique cultus pectora roborant.
Hor. 1762.

DEDICATION.

To the Trustees, Provost, Vice Provost, &c.

Gentlemen,

It is not without great expectations from your candour and indulgence that I am encouraged to lay this little Poem at your feet.

I do not flatter myself that your institution will hereby gain any additional lustre, but I would take this opportunity of publicly acknowledging my affection and gratitude to that seat of Science.

May all your undertakings for its advancement meet with more than expected success; and may it never want friends to support it with equal zeal, but greater abilities, than I can boast.

I am, Gentlemen, Your much obliged And humble servant, F. H.

Goddess sublime! on whose advent'rous wing,
Like the sweet lark, fleet fancy mounts to sing;
Whether it chance to please thee, youthful queen,
With airy step to grace the rural scene;
Or softly languish thro' the breezy grove,
In all the dying tenderness of love:
Whether thro' some untrodden flow'ry way,
With contemplation mild, thou lov'st to stray;
Or on a tempest's rapid fury rise,
And dip thy plumage in the wat'ry skies;
Or moon-light wand'ring by the wave worn shore
Wait on old Ocean's melancholy roar:
Where'er thou art, once more my pray'r attend;
Once more celestial muse thy influence lend.

Fair science soft'ning with reforming hand,
The native rudeness of a barb'rous land:
Her radiant throne uprais'd by pow'r divine,
Her num'rous sons low bending at her shrine.
Joyful I sing—oh! may my numbers seem
To flow inspir'd, and equal to my theme.

Ye friends of learning, patronize my song,
To you the tributary strains belong:
But chiefly , thou beneath whose gentle sway
The muse delights to tune her grateful lay:
Glad science, thee, shall her Mæcenas hail,
Wisdom shall smile and heav'nly truth prevail!
In yonder dome—it boasts no pompous name,
Yet not the less shall fill the page of fame,
Bright science dwells—how honour'd the retreat,
Where science deigns to fix her fav'rite seat.
High from the throne she beams celestial day;
And distant lands confess th' enliv'ning ray:
The graces ever in her presence stand
And virtue blooms beneath her nursing hand.

There first her youthful vot'ry learns to please
By just expression and becoming ease—
Delightful task, with early care to teach
The lisping tongue propriety of speech.
See on the stage the little hero stands,
With eyes uplifted, with extended hands:
Or from his lips Pope's liquid numbers flow,
In streams mellifluous—See the conscious glow
Burns on his cheek—perhaps the strains inspire
The infant raptures of poetic fire:
Perhaps 'tis modesty, with native grace,
Calls forth the roses in his youthful face:

O now the force of eloquence he tries,
And attic light'nings kindle in his eyes.
Methinks I see the deep touch'd senate glow
While mimic thunders threaten from his brow;
Or now his gentle voice in borrow'd lays,
Swells the smooth tribute of his Maker's praise:
See the warm ardor of the saint exprest,
As if the numbers fir'd his little breast:
What joy to hear; what raptures to behold,
The youthful bard, so graceful and so bold:
In virtues cause—bright truth shall soon inspire
The living ardors of a real fire.

But now glad science to his riper age
Unfolds the treasures of the classic page:
Sweet Heliconian draughts enrich his soul;
From the pure stream he drinks without controul.
Virgil for him awakes the tuneful lyre,
And lavish Pindar pow'rs forth all his fire.
Pious Æneas, who attends thy woe
But deeply feels the sympathetic glow!
Thro' ev'ry page engaging virtues shine,
And frequent precepts grace each moral line:
Whilst Horace leads the lyric muse along
With careless ease attunes the pleasing song;
Th' unlabour'd thought harmoniously exprest,
Gives gayer transport to the youthful breast:
Homer more boldly strikes the epic string;
Swift are we borne upon his rapid wing,
Where bleeding heroes stain th' ensanguin'd ground,
And angry gods are heard in thunder round.

And now advanc'd the student loves t'engage,
More arduous heights—the mathematic page
Invites his riper judgment to explore,
The mazy windings of her subtle lore:
The pleasing toil delights th' enquiring youth,
And science guides him to th' entangled truth.

At length behold to his astonish'd eye,
Nature's vast volume all expanded lye;
From the effect he seeks the hidden cause,
And deeply searches her mysterious laws.
Earth, air, nor sea, nor heav'ns extended space
Can bound the reach of man's aspiring race;
Upward he lifts the astronomic eye,
Surveys those orbs of light that roll on high:
Mid sun's and blazing stars he dares to rove,
And learn th' important laws by which they move:
Sits in the centre, wrapt in thought profound,
And views the radiant system rolling round.
To reason's eye there shall the cause appear,
Why various seasons form the changing year:
Spring first in mantle green and garlands gay,
Sweet smelling as she passes, leads the way.
With breezy call awakes each rural sound,
And fills with music woods and valleys round:
Then Summer comes light clad in glowing red,
Whilst the thick foliage nods around her head:
With lavish bounty from her lap she pours,
Luxuriant gifts of herbage, fruits and flow'rs.
In yellow garb see Autumn next appear,
To crown with plenty the rejoicing year:

O'er new reap'd fields with airy steps she roves,
And paints in various hue the fading groves.
Then boisterous Winter howls along the plain,
Affrighted vegetation shrinks again
Back into earth; woods, hills, and valleys stand
Strip'd of their pride by his relentless hand:
In icy bonds he holds the water's fall,
And in his snowy mantle wraps them all.

Thus shall his eye important truths pursue,
And in his works the Great Creator view:
The birds on pointed pinions mounting high,
That pour shrill music from the azure sky;
The fish that sporting in the lucid stream,
Swift glide and glitter to the sun's bright beam;
The herbs medicinal that strew the ground;
The varied flow'rs that bloom spontaneous round;
The grove, high waving, the green tufted dale,
The pearl deck'd grotto, the sequester'd vale;
All must the philosophic bosom move,
To wonder, gratitude, and glowing love.

But now the pupil takes his boldest flight;
See adventrous him, climb the tow'ring height,
Of Ethic learning—more extensive fields,
Views more enlarg'd, the boundless prospect yields.
His searches now pursue a nobler plan,
Now comes that grand enquiry what is man?
How form'd? by whom? thence shall he learn to know
From his connections what great duties flow.

What pow'rs are giv'n those duties to fulfill;
How form the judgment; how direct the will;
When passion to indulge, when to restrain;
And how his happiness supreme obtain;
What is the nature of his nobler part;
Why with ambition throbs his anxious heart;
To draw the mid-night curtains of the tomb,
And look for judgment and a world to come.

From such pursuits what great ideas flow?
See in his visage conscious virtue glow:
His views enlarge, enlighten'd is his mind;
More warm his heart, his passions more refin'd:
Religion kindles her celestial ray,
And truth breaks on him in a flood of day!

Pierian muse! thy favour still prolong
And let thy presence animate my song!

Now science joys to calls the youth her own
And crowns with laurel her adopted son:
His Alma mater now prepares to shed,
Her rich rewards on his distinguish'd head:
The vaulted hall the rising anthems rend,
And pressing crowds the solemn rite attend:
Prepar'd for action now he takes the field,
And speculation must to practice yield.
High on the stage, and graceful to the view,
“Adieu dear seat of bliss, he cries adieu;”

Pathetic sorrows in his bosom swell,
And with reluctant voice he sighs a last farewell.

What means my trembling pulse and throbbing breast?
Why is the scene to me so strong exprest?
Fancy again renews the awful rite;
Th' encircling audience swims before my sight;
Once more my heart beats quick with anxious fear:
Once more methinks the solemn charge I hear—
“ Go forth my sons, our first, our early pride,
“Thro' life's dark maze be virtue still your guide;
“Without religion, learning is but vain,
“And fruitless toil philosophy to gain:
“'Tis not sufficient that what's right you know,
“Your conduct ever should your knowledge show:
“Should injur'd freedom for assistance cry,
“Nor eye, nor ear, nor hand, nor heart deny;
“With pious zeal up raise her drooping head!
“There's nought but vice and tyranny to dread.”
Blest institution, nurse of liberty!
My heart, my grateful heart, shall glow for thee:
No common pride I boast, no common joy,
That thy instructions did my youth employ.
Tho' not the first amongst thy sons I prove,
Yet well I feel I'm not the last in love.
Oh! may thy sacred influence never cease,
But in secure prosperity increase!

100

It must be so, prophetic fancy cries;
See other Newton's other Shakespeare's rise;
Each sage philosopher, each learn'd divine
And patriot worthies an illustrious line:
All those who nobly fill Fame's ample page,
Again revive to grace a future age.—
Blest institution! hail, methinks I see
The shining throng ascribe their birth to thee.
Thou, Schuylkill, from whose cliffs I love to view,
Thy gurgling stream its rocky way pursue,
Shalt own the change: the savage yell no more
With fearful sounds shall rend thy rugged shore:
Oh! let thy groves their richest beauties wear,
And for approaching happier times prepare.
Along thy banks the pensive bard shall stray;
Sweep the sweet lyre, and wake the tuneful lay:
Echo shall love to catch the pleasing sound,
And bid it soften all thy rocks around:
Ev'n now thy flow'ry paths I see him tread,
And pluck thy laurels to adorn his head;
How shall thy waves elate flow proudly by,
And grow more turgid but to catch his eye?
How shall thy rural scenes bloom in his song,
And each romantic height his strains prolong?
Then whilst his breast with sacred ardor burns,
Religion, Justice, Liberty by turns;
And science too, in more harmonious strains,
Shall sweetly warble to the hills and plains:
Perhaps the bard, when highest noon prevails,
Beneath some shade shall court refreshing gales;

101

And whilst his wand'ring fancy roves more free,
May chance to think of earlier times and me.
Presumptuous thought, shall my unpolish'd lay,
Be borne in safety down time's rapid way?
The dang'rous rocks of criticism fly,
And fearless pass Oblivion's quick sands by?
Enough for me, if with the least regard,
The friends of science should my song reward;
No speedy death my artless strains shall know,
Not without honour will my numbers flow,
If with indulgence, they should not refuse,
To smile propitious on my humble muse.

The honourable James Hamilton, Esq. Lieutenant Governor of the province of Pennsylvania.

This passage alludes to the charge delivered by the provost to first candidates for degrees in the college, amongst whom the author was one.

The trustees of the college.

102

A MORNING HYMN.

Once more the rising source of day,
Pours on the earth his genial ray:
Withdraws the starry veil of night,
And smiles on ev'ry mountain height.

Once more my soul, thy song prepare,
Thy God approach in praise and pray'r;
With early voice salute the skies,
And on the lark's fleet pinions rise.

This hand did me from danger keep
When nature lay entranc'd in sleep:
When ev'ry sense forsook its post,
And reason's guardian pow'r was lost.

Soon as dark night o'er spreads the skies,
Colds mists and drowsy damps arise:
Contagious steams their confines break,
And slumber o'er the sluggish lake.

Loud shrieks the melancholy owl,
And prowling wolves thro' deserts howl;
The fancied spectre glides the green,
And midnight murder walks unseen.

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Forlorn the wearied wand'rer strays,
Lost in a labyrinthian maze;
Where'er he treads, is danger there,
And his soul sickens in despair.

Whilst slumbers soft my eye-lids close,
And golden dreams and sweet repose,
Wear the sad hours of night away,
And hasten on the chearful day.

My God! shall not such goodness move
My soul to gratitude an love?
Or shall my heart forget to raise,
Her loud hosannahs to thy praise?

When shall my eager spirit rise,
And soar above these floating skies?
Oh! when with hosts seraphic join,
To sing thy majesty divine?

In realms where no returns of night,
Shall e'er the tim'rous soul affright?
But one eternal blaze of day,
Shines forth with unremitting ray?

104

AN EVENING HYMN.

At length the busy day is done,
And yon bright orb, the glorious sun,
Deep in the west reclines his head,
Where misty curtains shroud his bed.

Oh! God of hosts! with this day's close,
How many sleep in death's repose?
And with the sinking sun's decline,
To thee their fleeting souls resign.

Hark! 'tis the tolling bell I hear,
And slow and dull it strikes mine ear:
E'en whilst I tune my pensive song,
The solemn fun'ral moves along.

He whom this night th' expecting tomb,
Shall wrap within its dreary gloom,
At yester-morn, devoid of care,
Up rose and breath'd the healthful air.

Gay Hope o'er look'd the present day,
Prospects of years before him lay;

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He hasten'd to distant joys meet,
Nor saw the grave yawn at his feet.

Ambition, stop thy mad career,
Look on that corse and drop a tear;
E'en when thy hand would grasp the prize,
The stroke is giv'n, and glory dies.

Let Av'rice, feeble, grey and old,
Whilst his broad palm protects his gold,
Lift up his eyes, and sighing say,
Death is a debt we all must pay.

Let thoughtless youth, too often found,
In sensual joy's enchanting round,
Behold, and as he trembling stands,
Let Pleasure's cup fall from his hands.

And thou my soul thy thoughts employ,
On God thy glory, wealth and joy:
Virtue alone is stable here,
Nought but religion is sincere.

When mortal pangs his frame shall seize,
And the chill'd blood begins to freeze;
When my fixt eyes must roll no more,
And life escapes thro' ev'ry pore.

Ah! what shall cheer my drooping heart.
Shall worldly honours joy impart?

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Can sensual pleasure sweeten death,
Or wealth redeem one parting breath?

Therefore, my soul, thy thoughts employ,
On God, thy Glory, wealth and joy:
Virtue alone is stable here,
Nought but religion is sincere.

107

TO ROSALINDA,

ON HER BIRTH DAY.

Welcome! ye glories of the eastern sky!
Blest be the dawn of this propitious day!
Oh! let the muse her willing strains employ,
And chearful swell the tributary lay.

This happy morn gave the rejoicing earth
A treasure great as could the heav'ns bestow,
This happy morn gave Rosalinda birth—
Cease, cease ye floods, ye tempests, cease to blow.

Come gentle spring, like Rosalinda fair,
Like her advance, and brighten ev'ry scene:
Shed all thy odours in the ambient air,
And far abroad extend thy mantle green.

Like Rosalinda come, the source of joy!
Let nature smile, and all the world be gay:
Let ev'ry muse her willing strains employ,
To hail the spring, and Rosalinda's day.

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Hail! sacred morn! the muse's lay
Once more salutes thy rising ray:
Hail! blessed morn! thy deathless fame
Shall live in Rosalinda's name.

Dark was the sky, and thro' the night
The tempest wing'd its rapid flight;
The forest herds in caverns lay,
And look'd and long'd for light and day.

With glory crown'd, at length was seen
Thy happy dawn, mild and serene;
Diffusive radiance paints thy sky,
And gilds Norwedian hills with joy.

Then came with thee fair Rosalind;
And came, like thee, to bless mankind:
The storms are hush'd, the muses sing,
And soon arose the jocund spring.

The feather'd choirs from ev'ry tree,
My Rosalinda, welcome thee;

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With them on this auspicious day,
Oh! let me join my annual lay.

The morn gave lustre to thy face,
The gentle spring, each winning grace;
Thus morn and spring their beauties join'd,
And gave the world fair Rosalind.

110

The wasting tide slow ebbing from her shore,
Wave after wave reluctant forc'd away,
Down to her channel shrinks, as if no more
Old ocean would her borrow'd stream repay.

But soon the waters with impatient flow,
O'er the broad strand in sprightly murmurs glide;
From the green bank the sedges stooping low,
With eager joy kiss the returning tide.

But time his ever ebbing course pursues
Along eternity, that boundless shore;
No kind reflux the wasting stream renews;
The moment wave, once spent, recoils no more.

Life is a narrow span contracting fast,
And yet the anxious heart, or prest with fear,
Would make it less, and wish the present past;
Or hope would bring some distant period near.

Time is the great deceiver of mankind,
Each day some long expected joy beguiles;

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Each day some new created hope we find,
Rising to view, and still the prospect smiles.

This, gentle Rosalinda, is thy day,
And claims the annual tribute of my song:
Kindly accept the muse's moral lay,
For moral subjects should to thee belong.

Thrice happy they, who like thee, timely wise,
See years expire, and see without alarm;
To thee each birth day shall serenely rise,
To fix some virtue, or improve some charm.

The glow of modesty shall paint thy face;
Fair innocence, thy days with peace shall crown;
Gay wit shall heighten ev'ry sprightly grace,
And mild religion lead thee gently on.

Till tir'd of life, thou shalt this life resign,
And rise a seraph from a sleeping fair
To heav'n—where angels with their harps divine
Shall celebrate thy happier birth-day there.

112

EXTEMPORE VERSES

FROM THE TOP OF MOUNT PARNASSUS, A LOFTY HILL IN Lancaster County.

Once more my heart dilates with joy,
To climb this craggy height;
To yonder distant hills once more
I stretch my ravish'd sight.

The known delight my bosom feels
Parnassian ground to tread;
And where the purest æther floats,
I'll raise my lofty head.

Fair Rosalinda standing by,
Assists my flowing song,
And passing gales thro' waving groves,
Shall bear my strains along.

She is my muse, and doth my soul
With glowing thoughts inspire:
Her cheering smiles shall make me feel
More than a poet's fire.

With anxious care, let others strive
Uncertain bliss to find,

113

And for expected wealth and fame
Resign their peace of mind.

In some such blest retreat as this,
Let me my hours employ,
And Rosalinda still be near,
To brighten ev'ry joy.

114

DIRTILLA, A POEM.

Thou goddess sable clad, Dirtilla, hail!
Thee I invoke to aid my daring muse,
To rise with sooty wing and sing thy praise.
Ne'er yet attempted by advent'rous bard.
Thee I invoke—whether thou lov'st to shew
Thy marbled visage in the troubled pool,
Or spread'st thy bounty o'er the smutted face
Of chimney sweeping elf; or o'er the plain,
Rolling in clouds by summer breezes born,
Salute the traveller in shape of dust:
Whether in furnace or in noisy forge,
With fiend-like colliers thou vouchsafest to dwell,
And fix with Vulcan thy co-equal reign;
Or soft recline upon a scullion's lap,
Or on the school-boys jacket smile serene.

Rebellious beaux, and washer-women strive,
But strive in vain with never ending war
To overcome thy pow'r—still thou return'st,
And still they labour on with fruitless toil,
Sworn foes to thee, thou sober-visag'd dame;
Not so thy bard—full well he knows to gain;
And having gain'd, thy favour still to keep,
E'en now wide spreading o'er my honour'd coat

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Full many a spot, full many a greasy smear,
Thy influence benign and pow'r declare;
Driving for thence, of new impressed cloth
The gawdy glare—ne'er to return again.

Oh! mortals blind to truth, whose anxious souls
Impatient wait, till from the taylor's hand,
The sumptuous garb, long look'd for, comes complete.
Success no sooner crowns their wearied hope,
But, new distractions fill their troubled mind,
And cloud their joy; lest, in some guardless hour,
A dreaded spot should fully all their pride.

See at the festive board in new brocade
And lawn, as yet unstain'd, Sophronia sits:
In vain rich wines of various sort and hue,
In order rang'd, the glitt'ring side-boards grace;
And pleasant viands smoke in vain around:
Nor these, nor yet th'exhilirating song,
Or needle point of stimulating wit,
Provoke to joy her ever anxious heart;
Should the rude servant with unhallow'd foot,
And overflowing glass, approach too near
The magic circle of her spreading robe:
Her eager hands collect the darling silk
In closer folds, and in her sparkling eye
New lightnings kindle at the bold assault.

Thus have I seen within some farmer's yard,
Whilst busy Partlet for her chirping brood
The dunghill scratch'd; to them a mine of wealth:

116

Should fierce grimalkin from beneath the mow,
Or neighb'ring barn, creep sly with deadly paw:
Alarm'd, she gathers all her little train
Beneath her shelt'ring wings: she swells with rage,
And brist'ling feathers awe the daring foe.

Oh! goddess most benign, beneath thy sway,
I eat and drink with pleasure unallay'd;
Nor care I ought, if from the dripping spoon,
The falling drops enrich my sullied garb:
Oh! could I like Lunanius boast thy love,
Thy fav'rite vot'ry he, far, far beyond
My utmost reach, my greatest hope aspires.
His honour'd chamber thou vouchsaf'st to make
Thy chosen seat, thy undisturb'd abode;
Where never broom thy ministers annoy,
But spiders, white with age, their webs extend
And see their num'rous offspring do the same.
Methinks I see him seated on the floor,
With all his dirty papers scatter'd round;
While lengthen'd cobwebs from the ceiling's height,
Hang pendant o'er his head in waving rows.
Not such as Betty from the parlour sweeps
With nimble hand: but such as oft are found
In dungeons deep, black with the dust of years.
Methinks I see upon his broken hearth,
On either side, a heap of ashes rise:
The sad remains of a whole winter's fire:
Nor would he yield them to the chandler's pence.
For they, oh! cursed art; by dire process,
Would soon convert them into cleansing soap.

117

And here, a kettle stands, which never felt
The wasting torture of a scullion's hand;
Impenetrable crusts guard it without,
And scale on scale the solid sediment
Of constant use, uncleans'd, line it within;
And there a Delphin mug, embossed once
With many a winding leaf and op'ning flow'r,
Of which no traces now are to be found,
Obliterated all with harden'd grime.

But, above all, methinks I see his bed,
The throne, oh! goddess! where thou reign'st supreme;
The tester bends beneath the load of dust,
Which time hath scatter'd with unsparing hand,
And curtains, tawny, with incessant smoke,
Hang graceful round in many a smutted fold.
To shake the bed, or cleanse the tott'ring frame,
On which it lies, no hand hath yet presum'd;
But ummolested myriads wanton there.
Thus lives Lunanius; nor can ought avail
To move his firm allegiance unto thee,
And may'st thou, goddess, e'er such vot'ries find.

Wrapt in prophetic vision, I behold
The times approach, when all thy foes,
Humbled in dust, shall own thy gen'ral sway:
For well we know, that all things are but dirt—
And beaux and belles, and all the soapy train
Of washing-women, and of scouring men,
Must yield to thee, and into dust return.

118

A SENTIMENT:

Occasioned by a conversation with Mr. P--- M---, one of the principal men among the Christian Society, called Dunkars, at Ephrata, in the province of Pennsylvania.

The Lord Supreme, from his exalted throne
Surveys at once earth, heav'n, and worlds unknown;
All things existing must before his eye
Like the plain tracings of a picture lie:
Unutter'd thoughts deep in the heart conceal'd,
In strong expression stand to him reveal'd.
Thousands, and twice ten thousands ev'ry day,
To him or feign'd or real homage pay:
Like clouds of incense rolling to the skies,
In various forms their supplications rise;
Their various forms with him can nought avail,
The secret motives only will prevail;
And the true source of ev'ry offer'd pray'r,
To his all searching eye must plain appear.

Some place religion on a throne superb,
And deck with jewels her resplendant garb:
Painting and sculpture all their art display,
And lofty tapers dart their lucid ray:
High on the full-ton'd organ's buoyant sound,
The pleasing anthem floats serenely round:

119

Harmonic strains their thrilling pow'rs combine,
And lift the soul to ecstacy divine.

Deep in Ephrata's gloom you fix your seat,
And seek religion in the dark retreat:
In sable weeds you dress the heav'n-born maid,
And place her pensive in the lonely shade:
Recluse, unsocial you, your hours employ,
And fearful, banish ev'ry harmless joy.

Each may be right in their peculiar way,
If proper motives should their worship sway:
If but the love divine of God is there,
The spirit genuine of unfeigned pray'r;
'Tis true devotion; and the Lord of love
Such pray'rs and praises kindly will approve.
Whether from golden altars they should rise,
And wrapt in sound, roll to the lofty skies,
Or from Ephrata's seat, so meek, so low,
The soft and silent aspirations flow.

Oh! let the Christian bless that glorious day,
When outward forms shall all be done away;
When we in spirit and in truth alone
Shall bend oh! God! before thy awful throne;
When thou our purer worship shalt approve,
And make returns of everlasting love.

120

THE TREATY; A POEM ,

Humbly inscribed to the honourable Thomas and Richard Penn, proprietors of the province of Pennsylvania.

'Mid the deep murmur of luxuriant groves,
Waving o'er Lehigh's sylvan painted stream,
All fancy-sir'd, the muse retiring loves
Lonely to rove, wrapt in poetic theme.
Serpentine waters with majestic flow,
Now lost—now shining, lead th' astonish'd eye,
To distant scenes where endless forests grow,
And dusky mountains melt into the sky.
Gushing abruptly from between the hills
Far off is heard the plunging torrent's roar;
From massy rocks here the cool stream distills,
And gentle dashings sound along the shore.
The gay musicians of the groves around,
In cadence sweet attune their warbling song;
Their warbling song the darksome caves resound,
And light-wing'd breezes bear the strains along.

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Here never bard hath swell'd th' harmonic lay,
Then let me eager to the bliss aspire
The first, ye rocks! to hear your echoes play,
Your virgin echoes to the dulcet lyre.

For thee, illustrious Penn! my song I raise,
Oh! let the muse thy wonted favour claim:
For thee I lonely tread the rustling maze,
And bid thy woods resound their master's name.

With rigid sway too long hath ign'rance reign'd,
And spread her gloom o'er this benighted land:
These solemn groves too oft with blood been stain'd,
Shed by barbarian's unrelenting hand.
Witness, ye ghosts! that to the waining moon,
Join, with the owl, shrill shrieks and plaintive moan;
Witness ye innocents, by fate too soon
Condemn'd beneath a savage yoke to groan
—Here pause a-while!—these grass-grown ruins view,
They call attention; they implore a tear!
These once the sound of social converse knew,
And peace, content, and jollity were here.
Alas! how chang'd! the hospitable hearth
No more shall blaze to cheer the ev'ning friend:
No more inspire the roar of rustic mirth,
When, with the setting day, its labours end.—
Alas! how chang'd! what a confused mass,
The scatter'd ruins of the cottage lie!
Here hissing serpents slide along the grass,
And here the owl lifts her distressful cry.
As calm and still the peaceful household lay,
At dead of night a savage yell was heard;

122

Affright'd sleep wing'd her aerial way,
And death in horror's darkest robe appear'd.
Warm from the father's wound the reeking blade
With mortal point hangs o'er the mother's breast:
Vain are her cries, her loudest cries for aid;
She groans in agony and sinks to rest.
A fate more hard the little offspring know;
Thro' breaks and thorns they tread their weary way,
Their guides, upitying, urge their steps, too slow;
And chide them oft as thro' the wild they stray.

How shall the muse, oh! thou ill-fated fair!
In numbers equal to thy weight of woe,
Thy sad distress, thy lot severe declare,
And bid for thee the tears of pity flow!

Rosetta, fairest maid that grac'd the plains,
Of all the village long remain'd the boast,
Struck with her lovely form contending swains,
Were daily striving who should please her most:
But happy Doris, with his gentle mien,
Had won her heart, the soft relenting fair,
Oft met her faithful shepherd on the green,
And Doris breath'd his tender passion there.
One eve, Rosetta from the cottage stray'd,
To seek a wand'ring lambkin of her fold,
A merciless troop seiz'd the unwary maid,
And grasp'd her, trembling, in their savage hold.
Full of fond hopes as Doris passing by,
Pursued his way, contemplative and slow,
Amaz'd he heard his fair one's well known cry,
And, fearless, rush'd upon the num'rous foe;

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Long did the youth th' unequal fight maintain;
But what, alas! could valour then avail?
An Alexander must have strove in vain,
Superior force and numbers will prevail.
The captive lovers lock'd in close embrace,
With silent tears their mutual grief express:
The tawny victors haste to leave the place,
Unmov'd, unpitying of their sad distress.
Two parties form'd, one takes the weeping fair,
The other Doris for their easy prize;
A silent gloom shuts in his dark despair;
The woods re-echo to her mournful cries.

Six times the moon her fullest orb had shown,
Since sad Rosetta with incessant grief,
Had mourn'd her liberty and lover gone,
Without one cheering prospect of relief,
Forc'd from her hospitable home to stray,
O'r craggy rocks her tender feet must go;
Thro' the sharp thorns she makes her gloomy way
And bears about a constant load of woe.
Oft times when shiv'ring in th' inclement air,
On the damp ground she fought for lost repose;
Her mother's fondness and her father's care,
And Doris's love to sad remembrance rose.

At length the chiefs a solemn feast prepare,
And gather num'rous from the nations round;
Each brings his spoils of war, and pris'ners there,
And thro' the woods triumphant echoes sound.

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A horrid tragedy must now succeed,
My swelling heart beats quick within my breast,
How shall the sympathising muse proceed
To dip her hand in blood, and paint the rest?
Six tawny heroes in their battles slain,
Sully the lustre of their festive day;
For them six captives with tormenting pain,
Must yield their lives the fatal debt to pay.

Absorb'd in sorrow on a turf reclin'd!
Rosetta lay, all wan with wasting grief;
Her lot severe, she ponder'd in her mind,
And look'd from death alone to find relief—
She starts alarmed at a sudden cry,
The well known voice of Doris strikes her ear,
Half-rais'd she looks around with tearful eye,
To see if much lov'd Doris was not near:
Oh! mournful object for a soul distrest!
Fast to a tree she sees her shepherd bound:
A mortal arrow planted at his breast,
And his life bubbling from the recent wound!
Struck with an instant frenzy of despair,
Thro' all her frame she feels the chill of death;
Flies to her just expiring love, and there
Sinks at his feet with closing eyes, and sighs her latest breath.

But cease my muse, such tragic scenes no more,
From pity's eye shall draw the tender tear;
Heav'n shall our interrupted peace restore,
And with the danger banish all the fear.

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All hail! the dawn of more enlighten'd days!
Accept, great Penn, the praise to merit due;
The angel peace, her olive wreath displays,
And smiling, as she rises, points to you.

When the fam'd Cortes to his monarch gave
Another empire in a distant land,
He bore his thunders thro' the foaming wave,
And fatal steel gleam'd dreadful in his hand.
Nor pity mov'd, nor justice sway'd his breast;
To fraud or force the injur'd natives yield;
Low in the dust he treads the warrior's crest,
And stands triumphant in a bloody field.

Not so the gentler patron of distress,
By lawless force would large possessions gain:
Illustrious Penn! still be it thine to bless,
Not to inflict unnecessary pain.
Thine is the skill in soft encircling chains
Of justice, truth, and charity to bind
The hand that spreads destruction round the plains,
And quell the fierceness of th'untutor'd mind:
From lofty mountains, and from valleys low,
From the broad lakes, and plains, that wide extend,
From ev'ry quarter whence the winds can blow,
Some of their tribes the various nations send.
But most from where Ohio's waters roll
To Lehigh's lucid stream, the chiefs repair;
Led by the glitt'ring centre of the pole,
To meet in love their Christian brethren there.
In yonder bow'r behold the council meet,

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Solemn and grand, without the help of art;
Of justice, commerce, peace, and love, they treat,
Whilst eloquence unlabour'd speaks the heart.
See from the throng a painted warrior rise,
A savage Cicero, erect he stands,
Awful, he throws around his piercing eyes,
Whilst native dignity respect commands.
High o'er his brow wantons a plumed crest,
The deep vermilion on his visage glows,
A silver moon beams placid round his breast,
And a loose garment from his shoulders flows.
One nervous arm he holds to naked view,
The chequer'd wampum glitt'ring in his hand;
His speech doth all the attic fire renew,
And nature dictates the sublime and grand.
Untouch'd by art, e'en in the savage breast,
With native lustre, how doth reason shine!
Science ne'er taught him how to argue best,
The schools ne'er strove his language to refine.
What noble thoughts, what noble actions rise
From in-born genius, unrestrain'd and free?
A tinctur'd medium oft deceives our eyes,
And art should prune, but not distort the tree.
E'en those who much their tutor'd reason boast,
And in the sacred seats of learning dwell;
Too oft obscure the paths of virtue most,
And only study how to puzzle well.
Why let the stream thro' levell'd parterres glide
Its lazy course to marble bounds confin'd;
Give me the bubbling fountain's mossy side,
In contemplation sweet to lull my mind.

127

From nature's store the warrior's speech is drest,
More pure the council fire begins to glow:
He bids the brighten'd chain of friendship last,
Long as the sun shall burn or waters flow.
Their mutual faith by firm assurance bound,
The chiefs, well pleas'd from solemn treaty rise,
Their brethren's bounty richly spreads the ground
And they with grateful joy divide the prize.
How fair is charity, celestial maid!
And this is charity sincere indeed,
To see our foes with tend'rest care repaid,
To cloth the naked and the hungry feed.

Now o'er the plain the swarthy heroes bring
A num'rous tribe, devising pastimes gay:
With sportive shouts they make the mountains ring,
And with athletic seats conclude the day.
Some with loose tresses floating in the wind,
In the swift race for victory contend;
A fierce ambition fires each youthful mind:
They strain each sinew, ev'ry limb extend
To smite the ball, some wield the massy oak,
And send it hissing, bounding o'er the plain;
Till counter-check'd by repercussive stroke,
Swift the elastic ball returns again.
Their nicer skill the dext'rous archers try,
And eager strive for victory and fame;
From the tough bow the feather'd arrows fly,
And pierce the centre of their distant aim.
No keener joy the youths of Greece inspir'd,
No brighter glories kindled in their eyes;

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When they press'd forward with ambition fir'd
To win and claim the fair Olympic prize.

Now palid vesper mourns departing day,
The frequent tears that trickle from her eye,
Fall brilliant stars, and mark her spangled way,
O'er the vast concave of the dusky sky:
And now the chiefs for awful rites prepare,
And hand in hand in horrid sounds unite,
Where curling blazes lash the misty air,
And pierce their radiance thro' the gloom of night.
—The dance of war begins, their eye-balls roll,
And dart their fierce enraged glances round;
More than infernal madness fills the soul,
And distant rocks their fearful yells resound.

No greater frenzy e'er the priestess shook,
When on the sacred tripod mounted high,
Her tender, shiv'ring, panting frame was struck
With the rough presence of the deity.
Each visage now convulsed looks aghast,
Their limbs are all in rude contortions thrown,
Their wild enthusiasm heightens fast,
And they for devils, not for men are known:
Till wasted nature can no more sustain,
And down in sleep their wearied bodies fall;
Silence profound resumes her awful reign,
And midnight's thickest mantle covers all.

This poem was written upon the banks of the river Lehigh, in the year 1761, when the author served as secretary in a solemn conference held between the government of Pennsylvania and the chiefs of several Indian nations.

129

AN ELEGY

SACRED TO THE MEMORY OF Mrs. ANN GRÆME,

AND HUMBLY INSCRIBED TO Mrs. ANN STEDMAN AND Miss ELIZA GRÆME, SURVIVING DAUGHTERS OF THE DECEASED:

As a testimony of his sincere affection and regard by their much obliged Friend, FRANCIS HOPKINSON.

“I heard a voice from Heaven, saying unto me, Write, from henceforth, blessed are the dead which die in the Lord, Even so saith the spirit: for they rest from their labours.”—

Rev. xiv. 13.

Why move the marble jaws of yonder tomb?
Why gleams the day light on her sacred gloom?
Why doth she thus her dark abode prepare?
And what new guest is soon expected there?
Oh! see she comes; amidst a weeping throng,
In solemn pomp Monimia's born along:

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Monima's breast hath heav'd its latest groan,
And dust and ashes claim her as their own—
Away false world—away, from reason's eye;
All trifling objects, vain ideas fly!
More awful scenes are present to my view,
And in my bosom leave no room for you.
The drooping pall; the bell's slow sullen sound;
The gaping grave; the weeping friends around;
By sacred priests the solemn service read;
Monimia number'd with the silent dead.
These, these are serious subjects, and I find
My soul to serious sentiments inclin'd,

Monimia's gone! up to the lofty skies
Methinks I see her sainted spirit rise;
Methinks I hear her voice triumphant sing,
“Grave where's thy victory? Death where's thy sting?

Say shall we mourn because her conflict's o'er?
Say, shall we weep, because she weeps no more?
Before the fullness of the Christian's joy,
Death must this transitory frame destroy;
Earth must to earth, the spirit to her flight,
For with its parent source shall each unite.

Full of desires unsatisfied thro' life,
The anxious soul maintains continual strife:
Fast lock'd in clay, amid surrounding foes,
She pants and longs for freedom and repose.
With beck'ning hand, and a deceitful smile,
Here stands temptation ready to beguile:

131

With gloomy aspect, there a fearful train,
Of poignant sorrows and distracting pain:
And last of all, comes her tremendous foe,
The king of terror strikes the fatal blow;
The heart grows sick, unequal throbs express,
Nature's last labour, and extreme distress:
Oh! who can tell the agonizing throws;
When the lips tremble and the eye-lids close;
When the soul, struggling in another birth,
Strives to get loosen'd from encumb'ring earth,
When Horror's blackest midnight would prevail,
And all the help the world can give must fail;
Whilst the cold sweat oozes thro' ev'ry pore,
Till suffering nature can endure no more.

Oh! What is life, and all this life can give,
We taste, but not enjoy; we breath, not live!
True joy and real life are fixt above,
The only objects worthy of our love:
Lament not then, that lov'd Monimia's gone,
Her time of trial's past, her work is done;
Her hope did firmly on her God depend,
She stood Christ's faithful soldier to the end,
And shall that crown of victory obtain,
Which saints expect, and martyrs died to gain.

Not to this period were her views confin'd,
A prospect nobler far engag'd her mind;
Array'd in immortality to stand,
Beyond the reach of time at God's right-hand;
To lift her voice with ecstacy divine;
And join the song where shining myriads join,

132

Till Heav'n itself feels the prevailing sound,
And everlasting kingdoms tremble round:
To view his glory with undazzled eye,
Who for his carpet spread yon glitt'ring sky;
Who from his throne looks downward to behold,
Worlds glide o'er worlds, systems o'er systems roll'd;
To stretch the wings of thought from place to place,
Pierce the dark regions of unbounded space;
In full fruition ev'ry hope destroy,
And drop belief to grasp the real joy.
Such were the objects of her souls desire;
These did each virtue, ev'ry grace inspire,
The word of truth, her still unerring guide,
Faith, Hope, and Christian charity, supplied:
A noble fortitude, false fear disarm'd,
A steady piety her bosom warm'd;
She liv'd a bright example to mankind:
Peaceful she died, contented and resign'd.

Oh! may I strive her foosteps to pursue,
And keep the Christian's glorious prize in view:
Like her defy the stormy waves of life,
And with heroic zeal maintain the strife:
Like her find comfort in the arms of death,
And in a peaceful calm resign my breath.

Græme Park July 1765.

133

VERSES

Wrote in a blank book which once belonged to Mr. Shenstone the poet, and was given by the Lord Bishop of Worcester.

Come little book, the giver's hand,
Shall add such worth to mine,
That I will hold thee highly priz'd,
And joy to call the mine.

Come little book; nor in my care,
An humbler lot refuse,
Tho' Worcester own'd thee once, tho' once
Design'd for Shenstone's muse.

Had Shenstone in thy spotless page
In glowing numbers plac'd,
All that is pleasing great, and, good,
With ev'ry virtue grac'd:

Fill'd thee with gentleness and love,
With piety and truth;
The wisdom of experienc'd years,
The brilliant powers of youth;

134

With all the condescending ease
Of manners most refin'd,
Then hadst thou been an emblem fit,
Of Worcester's generous mind.

Come little book; and let me boast
No small, no common fame,
That in thy once so honour'd page,
I write my humble name.

Hartlebury Castle, in Wocrcestershire, 1767.

135

TO A VERY YOUNG LADY.

So young, so skilful, and so fair!
Such praise thy merits claim,
The muse with rapture should prepare,
To celebrate thy fame.

If thus thy morn of youth displays
So much of virtue's light;
Oh! who can tell the glorious blaze
Of life's meridian height?

Gay hope with joy to future years,
Extends her eager view;
A pleasing prospect there appears,
She smiles, and points to you.

Thro' life she sees thee take thy way,
Elate in beauty's pride.
The graces all around thee play,
And virtue is thy guide.

136

Fair innocence with peace and love,
Strew flow'rs where e'er you tread;
And mild religion from above,
Sheds blessings on thy head:

Then shall thy worth some bard inspire,
In more exalted lays,
To bid the gazing world admire,
And give thee all thy praise.

London, 1767.

137

AN ODE

Set to Music on Mrs. B---'s Birth Day.

Recitative.

When Cæsar's birth-day glads Britannia's isle,
The earth exults and nature seems to smile:
Th' uplifted trumpet's awful sound,
United acclamations round,
And thund'ring cannon's awful roar,
Shake with rude transport Albion's shore.

Air.

But in more soft and pleasing lays
Let us our joy display;
Oh! swell the tend'rest note of praise
To hail Eliza's day.

For with fair truth and love divine,
Her peaceful soul is blest;
And all the winning virtues shine
Serenely in her breast.

138

Like some pure placid stream that flows
Gently and free from stain,
Dispensing blessings as it goes,
Along the flowry'ry plain:

So she thro' life her equal way
Glides on with spotless name:
Oh! may this oft returning day
Encrease her modest fame!

Hartlebury Castle, 1766.

139

THE HUMBLE PETITION

Of the Docks, thistles, and nettles of Hartlebury Farm, to the Lord Bishop of Worcester.

Illustrious Worcester; let thy patient ear,
Receive our sorrows, and with pity hear;
Oh! haste, and shield with thy protecting hand
The thistles, docks, and nettles of this land.

There was a time when our increasing race,
Had long in calm possession held this place:
See yon fair park, those blooming gardens see,
Beside each stream, and underneath each tree,
We rear'd our lofty crest, and all around,
With unmolested foilage spread the ground;
Those days of peace, alas! are now no more:
Who shall to us those days of peace restore?
Our num'rous race destroy'd, our empire lost;
Nor garden, park, nor stream, nor shade we boast;

140

Up rose our foe, with unrelenting hand,
And fatal steel, to root us from the land;
Amongst our tribes destruction marks her way,
To us 'tis mortal, but to her 'tis play;
None, none escape! young, old, and short and tall,
Before her powerful arm unpitied fall;
Docks, thistles, nettles round her mangled lie,
And in one common heap of ruin die.

In vain, we thistles, our high lineage bring,
From ancient thrones; the pride of Scotland's king;
Ah! what avails! that born thro' war's alarms,
Our sacred flow'r grac'd Caledonia's arms;
Wav'd in her banner, glitter'd on her shield,
And spur'd her heroe to the martial field;
In vain we claim a kingdom for our own,
Or boast that now we deck the British throne.

Soon as from earth we spring erect and gay,
And spread our purple tassels to the day;
With fatal steel her hands our stalks divide,
And to the dust bring down our with'ring pride.
And yet, oh! strange to tell! the courteous fair,
To all around, extends her nursing care;
With placid smiles and with benignant mind,
To other's gentle, but to us unkind:
Oh! say what dire offence hath caus'd our woe,
And made that breast, where pity dwells, a foe?
Or rather say, what can our state restore,
And sooth her rage that she destroy no more.

141

Nor her alone we fear , a hostile hand,
O'er the seas wasted from a distant land,
Pours dire destruction on our harmless race,
And fills with heaps of slaughter ev'ry place.

When western breezes with a murm'ring sound
Shook the small leaf and wav'd the groves around,
We little thought the soft and pleasing gale,
Fill'd for our mortal foe the swelling sale:
Unwelcome guest! thy coming we deplore,
And wish thee back upon thy native shore.
Are there no thistles there thy hands t'employ?
Are there no docks or nettles to destroy?
But must we fall, and whilst we sue in vain,
Be lopt and left to languish on the plain?

In vain hath nature with indulgent care,
On wings of down high pois'd our seed in air,
And bid the winds the little treasures bear;
For in their cells, e'er they're learnt to fly,
Cut off, unfledg'd the seeds prolific die.
In this distress on thee, our Lord we call;
Save us from ruin, e'er we perish all!
Oh! great and good to mercy still inclin'd,
Let this our pray'r with thee acceptance find.

Small our request—not where thy harvests glow,
Do we desire, or would presume to grow;

142

In humble state beneath each hedge to stand,
Is all we ask from thy benignant hand.
So shall our tribes exult in harmless joy,
Nor e'er with pointed sting thy hands annoy;
But thro' these fields we'll celebrate thy fame,
And thistles yet unsown shall bless great Worcester's name.

Hartlebury Castle, 1766.

These lines were occasioned by Mrs. I---'s, my Lord's sister, rooting out the thistles, &c. from the gardens, walks, and park with uncommon industry and care.

The author.

143

To MYRTILLA.

With sprightly air, and graceful mien,
Easy and ever gay;
Myrtilla trips along the green,
And steals all hearts away.

Good-humour smiling in her face,
Seems sorrow to defy;
Wit lights up ev'ry sprightly grace,
And sparkles in in her eye.

Fair is her form, her spotless mind
With ev'ry virtue blest;
And no offence could ever find
A harbour in her breast.

Ye swains, with caution pass this way;
For should you meet the fair,
You must to beauty fall a prey;
Love would your hearts ensnare.

Hartlebury Castle, 1766.

144

Soon Myrtilla must thy friend,
Hasten to a distant shore;
May propitious gales attend,
May they waft him safely o'er!

When to pensive joys inclin'd,
Thro' my native groves I stray,
Thy dear image to my mind
Soothing pleasures shall convey.

Fancy, oft, in airy flight,
Will direct her course to you;
Bringing scenes of past delight
Back to my enraptur'd view.

Oft shall Schuylkill's rocky shore,
With her waving woods around,
Thy fond name, repeating o'er,
Strive to swell the pleasing sound.

Thus with friendship most sincere,
Shall my faithful bosom glow;

145

All thy virtues I'll revere,
With such love as angels know.

Hoping still tho' far from thee,
I've a place in thy regard;
Which delightful thought shall be
My firm constancy's reward.

146

AN EVENING AT SEA.

More pleasing far, than all the glare of day,
The evening mild invites the muse's lay.
Our gallant ship, with ev'ry turgid sail,
Glides smoothly on before the pressing gale:
Whilst the full moon, fair regent of the night,
Pours o'er the sea a flood of silver light:
No noise is heard except the pleasing sound,
Of waves that roll and swell and break around;
Ever responsive to the watchman's song,
Who treads the deck, and trills his ditties long
With voice melodious, and with heart so true,
To lovely Nancy, or to black ey'd Sue.

Far on a distant shore, with curious eye,
Our anxious friends consult th' uncertain sky;
Longing they look, and with impatience burn,
To see in safety our tall bark return.

147

On that blest period we with no less joy,
Our eager hopes our constant thoughts employ.
Haste happy day! when with sincere delight
Our hands shall join; and social hearts unite.

Pennsylvania Packet, 1766.

148

VERSES

Wrote near the Conclusion of a very tedious Voyage.

Hail to the near approach at last,
Of that long look'd for day!
When hope enjoy'd, and dangers past,
Shall former cares repay.

The happy hour is now at hand,
When we shall wish no more,
But with exulting pleasure stand
Firm on our native shore.

Let ocean swell his angry wave;
Let winter blasts arise;
Their fury we no more will brave,
Nor trust uncertain skies.

But in secure and calm delight
Our peaceful hours employ;
And crown revolving day and night,
With ev'ry social joy.

Thus the good man with tranquil mind
At close of life's career,

149

Goes chearful on, in hopes to find
A happy harbour near.

Nor would he tempt those storms again,
Which shook his virtuous breast;
But, well rememb'ring former pain,
Contented to sinks to rest.

150

TO DELIA,

WROTE ON A LEAF IN HER POCKET-BOOK.

Go little leaf, and to the fair,
The mistress of my heart;
My truth and constancy declare,
My ardent love impart.

But how shall thy small page contain
That which no bounds controul?
Or how shall feeble words explain
The transports of the soul?

Go, tell her then that nothing less
Than a whole life of love,
Can all my joy in her express,
Can my fix'd passion prove.

That nought but death can from my mind,
Her dear idea part,
And lovely Delia ne'er shall find
A rival in my heart.

151

Go, tell her all our peaceful years
In mutual bliss we'll spend;
And hope to meet beyond the spheres,
When this frail life shall end.

May, 1768.

152

SONG.

Soft ideas love inspiring,
Ev'ry placid joy unite;
Ev'ry anxious thought retiring,
Fill my bosom with delight.

Soft ideas, gently flowing,
On your tide, so calm and still;
Bear me, where sweet zephyrs blowing,
Wave the pines on Borden's-Hill .

Where the breezes odours bringing,
Fill the grove with murm'ring sound;
Where shrill notes of birds sweet singing,
Echo to the hills around.

To the pleasing gloom convey me,
Let my Delia too be there;
On her gentle bosom lay me,
On her bosom soft and fair.

153

Whilst I there, with rapture burning,
All my joy in her express
Let her love for love returning,
Me with fond caresses bless.

On his little wings descending,
Bring the god of soft delight:
Hymen too with torch attending,
Must our hands and hearts unite.

She the source of all my pleasure
Shall my breast with transport fill:
Delia is my soul's best treasure,
Delia, pride of Borden's-Hill.

July, 1768.

At Bordentown on Delaware.

154

TO MYRTILLA.

THE NEST.

As in the glowing noon of day,
Stretch'd careless on the ground,
Beneath the breezy pines I lay,
Lull'd by their murm'ring sound:

A little nest aloft I spy'd,
Of feathers white as snow,
With strong, tho' slender, cordage ty'd
Fast to the top-most bough.

With eager haste I seiz'd the prize,
And found a beauteous pair:
Love yet unfledg'd with friendship lies,
Together nestling there.

Delia my captive, love detains
In Hymen's silken clue;
Friendship, Myrtilla, yet remains
An off'ring fit for you.

155

THE WASP.

Wrapt in Aurelian filth and slime,
An infant wasp neglected lay;
Till having doz'd the destin'd time,
He woke, and struggl'd into day.

Proud of his venom bag and sting,
And big with self-approved worth:
Mankind, he said, and stretch'd his wing,
Should tremble when I sally forth.

In copious streams my spleen shall flow,
And satire all her purses drain;
A critic born, the world shall know
I carry not a sting in vain.

This said, from native cell of clay,
Elate he rose in airy flight;
Thence to the city chang'd his way,
And on a steeple chanc'd to light.

Ye gods, he cry'd, what horrid pile
Presumes to rear its head so high—

156

This clumsy cornice—see how vile:
Can this delight a critic's eye?

With pois'nous sting he strove to wound
The substance firm: but strove in vain;
Surpris'd he sees it stands its ground,
Nor starts thro' fear, nor writhes with pain.

Away th' enraged insect flew;
But soon with aggravated pow'r,
Against the walls his body threw,
And hop'd to shake the lofty tow'r.

Firm fix'd it stands; as stand it must,
Nor heeds the wasp's unpitied fall:
The humbled critic rolls in dust,
So stunn'd, so bruis'd, he scarce can crawl.

157

TO T--- M---, Esq.

As I sat by the fire, the newspaper read,
And waited for breakfast, my wife being in bed;
It came in my mind that I could not do better
Than to call for some paper, and write you a letter.
'Tis true I have nothing material to say,
But will mention what incidents fell in my way;
Our leaving Newcastle, and how we got hither,
Half tir'd to death, thro' wind and foul weather.
I mounted at nine, and set off on my journey,
Along with my brother-in-law the attorney;
Who took with him papers, so many and bulkly,
He found it convenient to ride in his sulky.
We travell'd, and charted, and made ourselves merry,
And who should we meet a few miles from the ferry,
But the great little man: the justice I mean,
Rever'd and belov'd by the swains of Christeen.
You know that at present, however, he labours
Beneath a sad quarrel with one of his neighbours;
And then to Newcastle was going to show
What homage the vulgar to justices owe.
He stopp'd us, and while we stood still in our places,
Related his story, and cited some cases,
To prove how exceeding important the trust is,
And what veneration is due to a justice.

158

My brother assented, or seem'd to assent,
To all that was urg'd—away then he went,
Whilst we on our journey pursued as before,
Till we came to the ferryman's house on the shore.
Now this ferryman happen'd to be the vile brute
Who affronted his worship, and rais'd this dispute:
He likewise related his case to the lawyer
In such agitation, he work'd like a sawyer;
Whilst I stood impatient, unable to stir,
For his story was tedious, and caus'd a demur:
At length I exclaim'd—as I am a sinner,
We've no time to lose, we shall miss of our dinner:
But the man fully bent to wipe off his attainder,
Stept into the boat, and there told the remainder;
The lawyer assented, or seem'd to assent,
To all that was said—then forward we went.
Nothing afterwards happened that's worthy relating,
Till arrived at Chester, the place of our bating;
And here we divided, as was our intent;
At Cowpland's he stopt, and to Withy's I went:
Here the rooms were all full—nought but bustle and rout,
And over-grown booby-heads stalking about;
For this was the time when the lawyers resort,
From all quarters round to attend Chester court:
Attornies and clients here lovingly meet,
The one to be cheated, the other to cheat.

Now dapper lawyers croud each street,
Drest fine to cut a dash;
Saluting ev'ry one they meet,
In hopes of getting cash.

159

How dost thou friend, 'twould give me joy
To serve you with my skill;
For if you please, I can destroy,
Or can confirm a will.

Say, has your neighbour's deed a flaw?
Your title got a wound?
The breach I'll widen by the law,
By law will make your's sound.

“A widow, sir, there is opprest,
“And by a wealthy knave;
“Oh! then assist the poor distrest,
“Her all from ruin save;

“Her thanks and pray'rs she'll freely give,
“'Tis all you can obtain;
“For she hath scarce enough to live,
“And children to maintain.”

“Her case is bad—I can't defend her—
“Go tell her so from me;
“Besides, my conscience is too tender
“To plead without a fee.

“Sir, sir,” cries another, “you're gen'rous indeed,
“For the present, I think myself very well fe'ed:
“By what you have said, I can plainly discover;
“If you bring an ejectment you'll surely recover;
“The law is as plain as the nose on your face;
“I remember lord Raymond has just such a case,

160

“And what tho' the tenant hath long held the land,
“I warrant we'll soon wrest it out of his hand;
“And therefore I think you may safely depend on't,
“In a very few years we shall oust the defendant.”

Quite tir'd of nonsense, and noisy discourse,
I swallow'd my dinner, and mounted my horse:
But scarce had proceeded a mile on my way,
Before it turn'd out a very foul day;
The wind and the rain met me full in the face,
Yet I travell'd along at a pretty round pace;
Tho' I button'd up close, and flapp'd down my hat,
I was wet to the skin, like an half-drowned rat.
At length I got home, well pleas'd you may guess,
And by a great fire soon changed my dress.

And now I suppose you may think by this time,
I have teiz'd you enough with my nonsense in rhyme:
Before I conclude—my compliments pay
To fat Mrs R---d, and to fair Mrs. C---y;
Remember me too to your neighbour V---e,
Tho' grey as a badger, and old as a weazel;
To Mr. V---h, who leather can tan,
And justice M'W---m, that good-natur'd man;
To Johnny the barber, who hobbles about,
And takes the best man in the town by the snout.
Thus you see in good time, without any confusion,
My letter is brought to a happy conclusion.

161

TO THE MEMORY OF Mrs. MARY M'KEAN.

To yonder new made grave I'll go,
And there indulge my swelling grief:
There shall the tears of friendship flow,
And give my wounded heart relief.

To yonder grave, oh! muse, repair,
And whilst I breathe my tender sighs,
Attune thy plaintive lyre, for there
The lov'd, the lost Maria lies.

Blest be the ground where thou art laid;
Let no unhallow'd foet presume
Upon thy tufted grave to tread;
No hostile hand profane thy tomb.

Angelic hosts assembled here,
Shall guard the consecrated ground;
In robes of radiant light appear,
And spread seraphic music round.

The winds that thro' the midnight gloom,
Wild howling o'er the mountains fly;
Shall cease their rage, when near thy tomb,
And pass in plaintive murmurs by.

162

When at the board with festive glee,
Gay pleasures social bosoms chear;
E'en mirth shall pause to think on thee,
And, thinking, drop a silent tear.

With grateful hearts the poor distress,
Shall to thy grave lamenting go;
Then shall thy hand be duly blest,
That hand which lov'd to soften woe.

Oft when the moon with placid ray
Gleams o'er the dew-bespangled green,
Here shall my silent footsteps stray,
Here shall my pensive form be seen.

Thy worth, dear saint, shall then arise
All bright to contemplation's view:
Review thy life with weeping eyes,
And weeping strive to copy you,

Remembrance long shall hold thee fast;
Thy form, thy virtues ne'er shall die:
I'll love thee thus whilst life shall last,
And bless thee with my latest sigh.

THE EPITAPH.

Fair was her form, serene her mind,
Her heart and hopes were fix'd on high:
Her hand beneficent and kind
Oft wip'd the tear from sorrow's eye.

163

The sweets of friendship soften'd care;
Love, peace, and joy, her soul possest:
Meekness perfum'd each rising pray'r;
And ev'ry rising pray'r was blest.
In heav'n we trust, her fainted spirit sings
Glad Hallelujahs to the King of Kings.

March, 1773.

164

POLITICAL BALLADS,

WRITTEN IN THE YEAR 1777.

Date Obelum Belles[illeg.].

As I travell'd o'er the plain,
About the close of day,
I chanc'd to wander in a lane,
A lane of mire and clay.

'Twas there a dirty drab I saw,
All seated on the ground,
With oaken staff and hat of straw,
And tatters hanging round.

At my approach she heav'd a sigh,
And due obeisance paid,
First wip'd a tear from either eye,
Then her petition made.

“A wretch forlorn, kind sir, you see,
“That begs from door to door;
“Oh! stop and give for charity,
“A penny to the poor!

165

“Tho' now in tatters I appear,
“Yet know the time hath been,
“When I partook the world's good cheer,
“And better days have seen.

Proceed, said I, whilst I attend
The story of thy woe;
Proceed, and charity shall lend
Some help before I go.

“If blooming honours men delight,
“If charms in wealth they see,
“My fame once soar'd a glorious height,
“And who more rich than me.

“Of sons and daughters I can boast
“A long illustrious line,
“Of servants could command a host,
“For large domains were mine.

“But George my youngest faithless [illeg.]
“Hath all my powers o'erthrown;
“And in the very beds of joy
“The seeds of sorrow sown.

“He thirsting for supreme command,
“Contemn'd my wife decrees,
“And with a sacrilegious hand,
“My dearest rights did seize.

“A magic wand I once possest,
“A cap aloft it bore;

166

“Of all my treasures this the best,
And none I valued more.

“Ruthless he broke the sacred rod,
“The cap he tumbled down;
“Destroying thus, what with their blood
“His ancestors had won.

“An orphan child fell to my care,
“Fair as the morn was she,
“To large possessions she was heir,
“And friendly still to me.

“But George, my son, beheld the maid,
“With fierce lascivious eye;
“To ravish her a plan he laid,
“And she was forc'd to fly.

“She's young and will no more depend
“On cruel George or me;
“No longer now my boasted friend,
“Nor of my family.

“Bad measures often end in worse,
“His fell intent to gain;
“He sent in rage a mighty force,
“To bring her back again.

“But to defend the injur'd maid,
“Her faithful houshold came;

167

“In battle strong they stood array'd,
“And gain'd immortal fame.

“'Mongst these a godlike hero rose
“Wise, generous and brave,
“He check'd the frenzy of her foes,
“His arm was strong to save.

“So near perfection, that he stood
“Upon the bound'ry line,
“Of infinite from finite good,
“Of human from divine.

“Defeated thus in all his schemes,
“My foolish, wick'd son,
“Awak'd from his delusive dreams,
“And found himself undone.

“Mean time I suffer'd, in disgrace,
No comfort could I find,
“I saw distress come on a pace,
“With ruin close behind.

“At length distracted quite with grief,
“I left my native home,
“Depending now on chance relief,
“Abroad for bread I roam.

“A shield and lance once grac'd these hands,
“Perhaps you've heard my fame,

168

“For I was known in distant in lands,
“Britannia is my name.

“Britannia now in rags you see;
“I beg from door to door—
“Oh! give, kind sire for charity,
“A penny to the poor.

169

The BATTLE OF THE KEGS.

Gallants attend and hear a friend,
Trill forth harmonious ditty,
Strange things I'll tell which late befel
In Philadelphia city.

'Twas early day, as poets say,
Just when the sun was rising,
A soldier stood on a log of wood,
And saw a thing surprising.

As in amaze he stood to gaze,
The truth can't be denied, sir,
He spied a score of kegs or more
Come floating down the tide, sir.

A sailor too in jerkin blue,
This strange appearance viewing,
First damn'd his eyes, in great surprise,
Then said some mischief's brewing.

170

These kegs, I'm told, the rebels bold,
Pack'd up like pickling herring;
And they're come down t' attack the town,
In this new way of ferrying.

The soldier flew, the sailor too,
And scar'd almost to death, sir,
Wore out their shoes, to spread the news,
And ran till out of breath, sir.

Now up and down throughout the town,
Most frantic scenes were acted;
And some ran here, and others there,
Like men almost distracted.

Some fire cry'd, which some denied,
But said the earth had quaked;
And girls and boys, with hideous noise,
Ran thro' the streets half naked.

Sir William he, snug as a flea,
Lay all this time a snoring,
Nor dream'd of harm as he lay warm,
In bed with Mrs. L---g.

Now in a fright, he starts upright,
Awak'd by such a clatter;
He rubs both eyes, and boldly cries,
For God's sake, what's the matter?

171

At his bed-side he then espy'd,
Sir Erskine at command, sir,
Upon one foot, he had one boot,
And th' other in his hand, sir.

“Arise, arise, sir Erskine cries,
“The rebels—more's the pity,
“Without a boat are all afloat,
“And rang'd before the city.

“The motly crew, in vessels new,
“With Satan for their guide, sir.
“Pack'd up in bags, or wooden kegs,
“Come driving down the tide, sir.

“Therefore prepare for bloody war,
“These kegs must all be routed,
“Or surely we despised shall be,
“And British courage doubted.

The royal band, now ready stand
All rang'd in dread array, sir,
With stomach stout to see it out,
And make a bloody day, sir.

The cannons roar from shore to shore,
The small arms make a rattle;
Since wars began I'm sure no man
E'er saw so strange a battle.

172

The rebel dales, the rebel vales,
With rebel trees surrounded;
The distant wood, the hills and floods,
With rebel echos sounded.

The fish below swam to and fro,
Attack'd from ev'ry quarter;
Why sure, thought they, the devil's to pay,
'Mongst folks above the water.

The kegs, 'tis said, tho' strongly made,
Of rebel slaves and hoops, sir,
Could not oppose their powerful foes,
The conqu'ring British troops, sir.

From morn to night these men of might
Display'd amazing courage;
And when the sun was fairly down,
Retir'd to sup[illeg.]r porrage.

An hundred men with each a pen,
Or more upon my word, sir.
It is most true would be too few,
Their valour to record, sir.

Such feats did they perform that day,
Against these wick'd kegs, sir,

173

That years to come, if they get home,
They'll make their boasts and brags, sir.

N. B. This ballad was occasioned by a real incident. Certain machines, in the form of kegs, charg'd with gun powder, were sent down the river to annoy the British shipping then at Philadelphia. The danger of these machines being discovered, the British manned the wharfs and shipping, and discharged their small arms and cannons at every thing they saw floating in the river during the ebb tide.

174

A CAMP BALLAD.

Make room, oh! ye kingdoms in hist'ry renowned
Whose arms have in battle with glory been crown'd,
Make room for America, another great nation,
Arises to claim in your council a station.

Her sons fought for freedom, and by their own brav'ry
Have rescued themselves from the shackles of slav'ry.
America's free, and tho' Britain abhor'd it,
Yet fame a new volume prepares to record it.

Fair freedom in Briton her throne had erected,
But her sons growing venal, and she disrespected;
The goddess offended forsook the base nation,
And fix'd on our mountains a more honour'd station.

With glory immortal she here sits enthron'd,
Nor fears the vain vengeance of Britain disown'd,
Whilst Washington guards her with heroes surrounded,
Her foes shall with shameful defeat be confounded.

175

To arms then, to arms, 'tis fair freedom invites us;
The trumpet shrill sounding to battle excites us;
The banners of virtue unfurl'd, shall wave o'er us,
Our hero lead on, and the foe fly before us.

On Heav'n and Washington placing reliance,
We'll meet the bold Britton, and bid him defiance:
Our cause we'll support, for 'tis just and 'tis glorious
When men fight for freedom they must be victorious.

176

THE TOAST.

'Tis Washington's health—fill a bumper around,
For he is our glory and pride;
Our arms shall in battle with conquest be crown'd,
Whilst virtue and he's on our side.

'Tis Washington's health—and cannons should roar,
And trumpets the truth should proclaim;
There cannot be found, search the world all o'er,
His equal in virtue and fame.

'Tis Washington's health—our hero to bless,
May heav'n look graciously down:
Oh! long may he live our hearts to possess,
And freedom still call him her own.

177

The BIRDS, the BEASTS, and the BAT.

A FABLE.

A war broke out in former days,
If all is true that Æsop says,
Between the birds that haunt the grove,
And beasts that wild in forests rove:
Of fowl that swim in water clear,
Of birds that mount aloft in air;
From ev'ry tribe vast numbers came,
To fight for freedom, as for fame:
The beasts from dens and caverns deep,
From valleys low and mountains steep;
In motly ranks determin'd stood,
And dreadful howlings shook the wood.
The bat, half bird, half beast was there,
Nor would for this or that declare;
Waiting till conquest should decide,
Which was the strongest, safest side:
Depending on this doubtful form,
To screen him from th' impending storm.

178

With sharpen'd beaks and talons long,
With horny spurs and pinions strong,
The birds in fierce assault, 'tis said,
Amongst the foe such havoc made,
That panic struck, the beasts retreat
Amaz'd, and vict'ry seem'd complete.
Th' observant bat, with squeaking tone,
Cries, Brave, birds the day's our own;
“For now I'm proud to claim a place
“Amongst your bold aspiring race;
“With leathern wings I skim the air,
“And am a bird tho' clad in hair.”

But now the beasts asham'd of flight,
With rallied force renew the fight,
With threatening teeth, uplifted paws,
Projecting horns and spreading claws,
Enrag'd advance—push on the fray,
And claim the honours at the day.

The bat still hov'ring to and fro,
Observ'd how things were like to go,
Concludes those best who best can fight,
And thinks the strongest party right;
“Push on, quoth he, our's is the day
“We'll chase these rebel birds away,
“And reign supreme—for who but we
“Of earth and air the Lords should be;
“That I'm a beast I can make out,
“by reasons strong beyond a doubt,

179

“With teeth and fur 'twould be absurd,
“To call a thing like me a bird;
“Each son and daughter of my house,
“Is stil'd at least a flying mouse.”

Always uncertain is the fate,
Of war and enterprises great:
The beasts exulting push'd too far
Their late advantage in the war;
Sure of success, insult the foe,
Despise their strength and careless grow;
The birds not vanquish'd, but dismay'd,
Collect their force, new pow'rs display'd,
Their chief, the eagle, leads them on,
And with fierce rage the war's begun.
Now in their turn the beasts must yield,
The bloody laurels of the field;
Routed they fly, disperse, divide,
And in their native caverns hide.

Once more the bat with courtly voice,
Hail, noble birds! “much I rejoice
In your success, and come to claim
My share of conquest and of fame.”
The birds the faithless wretch despise;
Hence, traitor, hence the eagle cries;
No more, as you just vengeance fear,
Amongst our honour'd ranks appear.
The bat, disown'd in some old shed,
Now seeks to hide his exil'd head;

180

Nor dares his leathern wings display,
From rising morn to setting day:
But when the gloomy shades of night,
Screens his vile form from every sight,
Despis'd, unnotic'd, flits about;
Then to his dreary cell returns,
And his just fate in silence mourns.

181

THE MOST GRACIOUS ADDRESS

OF ADMIRAL Collier AND GENERAL Tryon TO THE PEOPLE OF Connecticut.—July, 1779.

What can ye hope, rebellious crew,
But vengeance dire to traitors due;
Whilst you support this insurrection,
Refusing to our king subjection?
Why so ungen'rous, so unkind?
Why to your own true int'rest blind?
'Tis fact—and take it on our word,
If you'll submit to George the Third,
You'll surely find it better far
Than carrying on this bloody war:
You'll only be of slaves a nation,
From generation to generation:
And what is that, compar'd with all
The mischiefs which may now befal,
If you unwisely still persist in
This naughty practice of resisting.

Your towns, yourselves, you can't deny,
Within the grasp of power lie:
And that we can with greatest ease,
Clap paw upon you when we please.

182

That you've a house to put your head in,
Have pots or kettles, beds or bedding,
Is to our great forbearance owing,
And tender mercy ever flowing.
What you, presumptuous, call your own,
You only have from us on loan;
And if we ask it back again,
You know resistance would be vain.
Therefore your houses, goods, and land,
As monuments of mercy stand:
But we're in hopes you now begin
To see, and soon will own your sin:
The very continent we're told
Begins to blush, tho' late so bold;
Conscious of many heinous crimes,
And therefore would repent by times.
And you, who thus at mercy lie,
Should first to our protection fly:
And save yourselves from fell perdition,
The sure reward of black sedition.
Would you submit, 'twould be a sample
For others—and the good example
Might draw in many worthy folks
To poke their necks into our yokes;
And so become—oh! blessed thing,
The slaves of our most gracious king.

And now we think it not amiss
To leave you to reflect on this:

183

And do most graciously declare,
That we will all those culprits spare,
Who stay at home in peace and quiet,
Disclaiming this unnat'ral riot;
We'll spare their dwellings—and what more is,
Be kind as Howe to Jersey tories:
Yet rebels of the military,
Must still remain in sad quandary;
And those who fill departments civil,
Will sure go headlong to the devil;
Unless they will their follies own,
And pardon ask on marrow-bone.

But do not think, because we're kind,
We may be always of one mind;
And that our goodness has no end,
Because as yet we've been your friend:
Should you perversely still proceed,
We shall be very wroth indeed;
And when we're angry—you know what—
Connecticut must go to pot.
Too late you'll find yourselves mistaken,
And not a man will save his bacon:
Therefore beware—you may rely on
The words of Collier and of Tryon.

Vide the original address, of which this is in substance a just translation throughout.

184

IN MEMORY OF Mr. JAMES BREMNER.

Sing to his shade a solemn strain,
Let music's notes complain;
Let echo tell from shore to shore,
The swain of Schuylkill is no more.

Air.

From Scotia's land he came,
And brought the pleasing art
To raise the sacred flame
That warms a feeling heart.

The magic pow'rs of sound,
Obey at his command,
And spread sweet influence round,
Wak'd by his skilful hand.

Oh! sanctify the ground,
The ground where he is laid;
Plant roses all around,
Nor let those roses fade.

Let none his tomb pass by,
Without a gen'rous tear,
Or sigh—and let that sigh,
Be like himself sincere.

He died on the banks of the Schuylkill, Sept. 1780.

185

SONG I. Come, fair Rosina, come away

I.

Come, fair Rosina, come away,
Long since stern Winter's storms have ceas'd;
See! Nature, in her best array,
Invites us to her rural feast:
The season shall her treasure spread,
Her mellow fruits and harvests brown,
Her flowers their richest odours shed,
And ev'ry breeze pour fragrance down.

II.

At noon we'll seek the wild wood's shade,
And o'er the pathless verdure rove;
Or, near a mossy fountain laid,
Attend the music of the grove;
At eve, the sloping mead invites
'Midst lowing herds and flocks to stray;
Each hour shall furnish new delights,
And love and joy shall crown the day.

186

SONG II. My love is gone to sea

I.

My love is gone to sea,
Whilst I his absence mourn,
No joy shall smile on me
Until my love return.
He ask'd me for his bride,
And many vows he swore;
I blush'd—and soon comply'd,
My heart was his before.

II.

One little month was past,
And who so blest as we!
The summons came at last,
And Jemmy must to sea.
I saw his ship so gay
Swift fly the wave-worn shore;
I wip'd my tears away—
And saw his ship no more.

III.

When clouds shut in the sky
And storms around me bowl;

187

When livid lightnings fly,
And threat'ning thunders roll;
All hopes of rest are lost,
No slumbers [illeg.] me?
My anxious thoughts are tost
With Jemmy on the sea.

SONG III. Beneath a weeping willow's shade

I.

Beneath a weeping willow's shade
She sat and sang alone;
Her hand upon her heart she load
And plaintive was her moan.
The mock bird sat upon a bough
And list'ned to her lay,
Then to the distant hills he bore
The dulcet notes away.

II.

Fond echo to her stra[illeg.] reply'd,
The winds her sorrows bore;
Adieu! dear youth—adieu! she cry'd,
I ne'er shall see thee more.
The mock-bird sat upon a bough
And list'ned to her lay,
Then to the distant hills he bore
The dulcet notes away.

188

SONG IV. Enraptur'd I gaze when my Delia is by

I.

Enraptur'd I gaze when my Delia is by,
And drink the sweet poison of love from her eye;
I feel the soft passion pervade ev'ry part
And pleasure unusual plays round my fond heart.

II.

I hear her sweet voice, and am charm'd with her song—
I think I could hear her sweet voice all day long;
My senses enchanted, are lost in delight
When love and soft music their raptures unite.

III.

Beyond all expression my Delia I love,
My heart is so fix'd that it never can rove;
When I see her I think tis an angel I see,
And the charms of her mind are a heaven to me.

189

SONG V. See down Maria's blushing cheek

[I.]

See down Maria's blushing cheek
The tears of soft compassion flow;
Those tears a yielding heart bespeak—
A heart that feels for others' woe.
May not those drops, that frequent fall,
To my fond hope propitious prove,
The heart that melts at Pity's call
Will own the softer voice of love.

II.

Earth ne'er produced a gem so rare
Nor wealthy ocean's ample space
So rich a pearl—as that bright tear
That lingers on Maria's face.
So hangs upon the morning rose
The chrystal drop of heav'n refin'd,
A while with trembling lustre glows—
Is gone—and leaves no stain behind.

190

SONG VI. O'er the hills far away, at the birth of the morn

O'er the hills far away, at the birth of the morn.
I hear the full tone of the sweet sounding horn;
The sportsmen with shottings all hail the new day
And swift run the hounds o'er the hills far away.
Across the deep valley their [illeg.] they pursue
And rush thro' the thicket yet silver'd with dew;
Nor hedges nor ditches their speed can delay—
Still sounds the sweet horn o'er hills far away.

SONG VII. My gen'rous heart disdains

I.

My gen'rous heart disdains
The slave of love to be,
I scorn his servile chains,
And boast my liberty.
This whining
And pining
And wasting with care,
Are not to my taste, be she ever so fair.

191

II.

Shall a girl's capricious frown
Sink my noble spirits down?
Shall a face of white and red
Make me droop my silly head?
Shall I set me down and sigh
For an eye-brow or an eye?
For a braided lock of hair,
Curse my fortune and despair?
My gen'rous heart disdains, &c.

III.

Still uncertain is to-morrow,
Not quite certain is to-day—
Shall I waste my times in sorrow?
Shall I languish life away?
All because a cruel maid,
Hath not Love with Love repaid.
My gen'rous heart disdains, &c.

SONG VIII. The traveller benighted and lost

I.

The traveller benighted and lost,
O'er the mountains pursues his lone way;
The stream is all candy'd with frost
And the icicle hangs on the spray,
He wanders in hope some kind shelter to find
“whilst thro' the sharp hawthorn keen blows the cold wind.”

192

II.

The tempest howls dreary around
And rends the tall oak in its flight;
Fast falls the cold snow on the ground,
And dark is the gloom of the night.
Lone wanders the trav'ler a shelter to find,
“Whilst thro' the sharp hawthorn still blows the cold wind.”

III.

No comfort the wild woods afford,
No shelter the trav'ler can see—
Far off are his bed and his board
And his home, where he wishes to be.
His hearth's cheerful blaze still engages his mind
“Whilst thro' the sharp haw thorn keen blows the cold wind.”

N. B. The last eight Songs were set to Music by the Author.

193

AN ORATION,

WHICH MIGHT HAVE BEEN DELIVERED TO THE STUDENTS IN ANATOMY, ON THE LATE RUPTURE BETWEEN THE TWO SCHOOLS IN THIS CITY.

194

The ARGUMENT.

ADDRESS—the folly and danger of dissention—the Orator enumerates the enemies of the fraternity—reminds them of a late unseasonable interruption—a night scene in the Potter's Field—he laments the want of true zeal in the brotherhood— and boasts of his own—the force of a ruling passion—the earth considered as a great animal—the passion of love not the same in a true son of Esculapius as in other men—his own amour—a picture of his mistress in high taste—shews his learning in the description of her mouth, arm and hand —his mistress dies—his grief—and extraordinary consolation —his unparallel'd fidelity—he apologizes for giving this history of his armour—the great difficulties Anatomists have to encounter in the present times, arising from false delicacy, prejudice and ignorance—a strong instance in proof that it was not so formerly—curious argument to prove the inconsistency of the present opinions respecting the practice—he mentions many obstacles in the road to science—and reproaches them for their intestine broils, at a time when not only popular clamour is loud, but even the powers of government are exerted against them—he then encourages his brethren with hopes of better times, founded on the establishment of the College of Physicians—is inspired with the idea of the future glory of that institution—and prophesies great things.

195

Friends and associates! lend a patient ear,
Suspend intestine broils and reason hear.
Ye followers of—your wrath forbear—
Ye sons of—your invectives spare;
The fierce dissention your high minds pursue
Is sport for others—ruinous to you.

Surely some fatal influenza reigns,
Some epidemic rabies turns your brains—
Is this a time for brethren to engage
In public contest and in party rage?
Fell discord triumphs in your doubtful strife
And, smiling, whets her anatomic knife;
Prepar'd to cut our precious limbs away
And leave the bleeding body to decay—

Seek ye for foes!—alas, my friends, look round,
In ev'ry street, see num'rous foes abound!

196

Methinks I hear them cry, in varied tones,
“Give us our father's—brother's—sister's bones.”
Methinks I see a mob of sailors rise—
Revenge!—revenge! they cry—and damn their eyes—
Revenge for comrade Jack, whose flesh they say,
You minc'd to morsels and then threw away.
Methinks I see a black infernal train-
The genuine offspring of accursed Cain—
Fiercely on you their angry looks are bent,
They grin and gibber dangerous discontent
And seem to say—“Is there not meat enough?
“Ah! massa cannibal, why eat poor Cuff?”
Ev'n hostile watchmen stand in strong array
And o'er our heads their threat'ning slaves display,
Howl hideous discord thro' the noon of night
And shake their dreadful lanthorns in our sight.

Say, are not these sufficient to engage
Your high wrought souls eternal war to wage?
Combine your strength these monsters to subdue
No friends of science and sworn foes to you;
On these—on these your wordy vengeance pour
And strive our fading glory to restore.

Ah! think how, late, our mutilated rites
And midnight orgiee, were by sudden frights
And loud alarms profan'd—the sacrifice,
Stretch'd on a board before our eager eyes,
All naked lay—ev'n when our chieftain stood
Like a high priest, prepar'd for shedding blood;
Prepar'd, with wondrous skill, to cut or flash

197

The gentle sliver or the deep drawn gash;
Prepar'd to plunge ev'n elbow deep in gore
Nature and nature's secrets to explore—
Then a tumultuous cry—a sudden fear—
Proclaim'd the foe—th' enraged foe is near—
In some dark hole the hard got corse was laid
And we, in wild conclusion, fled dismay'd.

Think how, like brethren, we have shar'd the toil
When in the Potter's Field we sought for spoil,
Did midnight ghosts and death and horror brave—
To delve for science in the dreary grave.—
Shall I remind you of that awful night
When our compacted band maintain'd the fight
Against an armed host?—fierce was the fray
And yet we bore our sheeted prize away.
Firm on a horse's back the corse was laid,
High blowing winds the winding sheet display'd;
Swift flew the steed—but still his burthen bore—
Fear made him fleet, who ne'er was fleet before;
O'er tombs and sunken graves he cours'd around,
Nor ought respected consecrated ground,
Mean time the battle rag'd—so loud the strife,
The dead were almost frighten'd into life—
Tho' not victorious, yet we scorn'd to yield,
Retook our prize and left the doubtful field.

In this degenerate age, alas! how few
The paths of science with true zeal pursue?
Some trifling contest, some delusive joy
Too oft th' unsteady minds of youth employ.

198

For me—whom Esculapius, hath inspir'd—
I boast a soul with love of science fir'd;
By one great object is my heart possest—
One ruling passion quite absorbs the rest—
In this bright point my hopes and fears unite;
And one pursuit alone can give delight.

To me things are not as to vulgar eyes,
I would all nature's works anatomize—
This world a living monster seems, to me,
Rolling and sporting in th' aerial sea;
The soil encompasses her rocks and stones
As flesh in animals encircles bones.
I see vast ocean, like a heart in play,
Pant systole and diastole ev'ry day,
And by unnumber'd venous streams supply'd
Up her broad rivers force th' arterial tide.
The world's great lungs, monsoons and trade-winds shew
From east to west, from west to east they blow
Alternate respiration—
The hills are pimples which earth's face defile,
And burning Ætna, an eruptive boil:
On her high mountains hairy forests grow,
And downy grass o'erspreads the vales below;
From her vast body perspirations rise
Condense in clouds and float beneath the skies.
Thus fancy, faithful servant of the heart,
Transforms all nature by her magic art.

Ev'n mighty Love, whose pow'r all pow'r controuls,
Is not, in me, like love in other souls—

199

Yet I have lov'd—and Cupid's subtle dart
Hath thro' my pericurdium pierc'd my heart.
Brown Cadavera did my soul ensnare,
Was all my thought by night and daily care—
I long'd to clasp, in her transcendent charms,
A living skeleton within my arms.

Long, lank and lean, my Cadavera stood,
Like the tall pine, the glory of the wood—
Oft times I gaz'd, with learned skill to trace
The sharp edg'd beauties of her bony face—
There rose Os frontis prominent and bold,
In deep sunk orbits two large eye-balls roll'd,
Beneath those eye-balls, two arch'd bones were seen
Whereon two flabby cheeks hung loose and lean;
Between those cheeks, protuberant arose,
In form triangular, her lovely nose,
Like Egypt's pyramid it seem'd to rise,
Scorn earth, and bid defiance to the skies;
Thin were her lips, and of a sallow hue,
Her open mouth expos'd her teeth to view;
Projecting strong, protuberant and wide
Stood incisores—and on either side
The canine rang'd, with many a beauteous flaw,
And last the grinders, to fill up the jaw—
All in their alveoli fix'd secure,
Articulated by gomphosis sure.
Around her mouth, perpetual smiles had made
Wrinkles wherein the loves and graces play'd;
There, stretch'd and rigid by continual strain,
Appear'd the zygomatic muscles plain,

200

And broad montanus o'er her peeked chin
Extended to support the heav'nly grin.
In amorous dalliance of I stroak'd her arm,
Each rising muscle was a rising charm.
O'er the flexores my fond fingers play'd,
I found instruction with delight convey'd—
There carpus, cubitus and radius too
Were plainly felt and manifest to view.
No muscles on her lovely hand were seen,
But only bones envelop'd by a skin.
Long were her fingers and her knuckles bare,
Much like the claw-foot of a walnut chair.
So plain was complex metacarpas shewn
It might be fairly counted bone by bone.
Her slender phalanxes were well defin'd,
And each with each by ginglymus combin'd,
Such were the charms that did my fancy fire
And love—chaste scientific love inspire.

At length my Cadavera fell beneath
The fatal stroke of all subduing death—
Three days in grief—three nights in tears I spent,
And sighs incessant gave my sorrows vent.

Few are th' examples of a love so true—
Ev'n from her death I consolation drew,
And in a secret hour approach'd her grave
Resolv'd her precious corse from worms to save;
With active haste remov'd the incumbent clay,
Seiz'd the rich prize and bore my love away.

201

Her naked charms now lay before my sight,
I gaz'd with rapture and supreme delight,
Nor could forbear, in ecstasy, to cry—
Beneath that shrivell'd skin what treasures lie!
Then feasted to the full my amorous soul,
And skinn'd and cut and slash'd without controul.

'Twas then I saw, what long I'd wish'd to see,
That heart which panted oft for love and me—
In detail view'd the form I once ador'd,
And nature's hidden mysteries explor'd.

Alas! too truly did the wise man say
That flesh is grass, and subject to decay—
Not so the bones—of substance firm and hard
Long they remain th' anatomist's reward.
Wise nature, in her providential care,
Did, kindly, bones from vile corruption spare,
That sons their fathers' skeletons might have
And heav'n born science triumph o'er the grave.

My true love's bones I boil'd—from fat and lean
These hands industrious scrap'd them fair and clean,
And every bone did to its place restore,
As nature's hand had placed them long before;
These fingers twisted ev'ry pliant wire
With patient skill, urg'd on by strong desire.
Now what remains of Cadavera's mine,
Securely hanging in a case of pine.

Ofttimes I sit and contemplate her charms,
Her nodding skull and her long dangling arms,
'Till quite inflam'd with passion for the dead
I take her beauteous skeleton to bed—
There stretch'd, at length, close to my faithful side
She lies all night a lovely grinning bride.—

202

Excuse, my friends, this detail of my love,
You must th' intent, if not the tale approve;
By facts exemplary I meant to shew
To what extent a genuine real will go.
A mind, so fix'd, will not be drawn side
By vain dissention or a partial pride;
But ev'ry hostile sentiment subdue
And keep the ruling passion still in view.

False delicacy—prejudices strong,
Which no distinctions know 'twixt right and wrong,
Against our noble science spend their rage
And mark th' ignorance of this vulgar age.

Time was, when men their living flesh would spare
And to the knife their quiv'ring mates bare,
That skilful surgeons noses might obtain
For noses lost—and cut and come again—
But now the living churlishly refuse
To give their dead relations to our use;
Talk of decorum—and a thousand whims—
Whene'er we hack their wives' or daughters' limbs;
And yet their tables daily they supply
With the rich fruits of sad mortality;
Will pick, and gut and cook a chicken's corse,
Dissect and eat it up without remorse;
Devouring fish, flesh, fowl, whatever comes,
Nor fear the ghosts of murder'd hecatombs.

Now where's the difference?—to th' Impartial eye
A leg of mutton and a human thigh
Are just the same—for surely all must own
Flesh is but flesh, and bone is only bone;

203

And tho' indeed, some flesh and bone may grow
To make a monkey—some to make a beau,
Still the materials are the same, we know.
Nor can our anatomic knowledge trace
Internal marks distinctive of our race—

Whence, then, these loud complaints—these hosts of foes
Combin'd our useful labours to oppose?
How long shall foolish prejudices reign?
And when shall reason her just empire gain?

Ah! full of danger is the up-hill road,
That leads the youth to learning's high abode:
His way thick mists of vulgar errors blind,
And sneering satire follows close behind;
Sour envy strews the rugged path with thorns,
And lazy ignorance his labour snorns.

Is this a time, ye brethren of the knife,
For civil contest and internal strife!
When loud against us gen'ral clamours cry,
And persecution lifts her lash on high?
When government—that many headed beast—
Against our practice rears her horrid crest,
And, our nocturnal access to oppose,
Around the dead a penal barrier throws?
To crush our schools her awful pow'r applies,
And ev'n forbids the gibbet's just supplies.

Yet in this night of darkness, storms and fears,
Behold one bright benignant star appears—

204

Long may It shine, and, e'er it's course is run,
Increase, in size and splendour, to a sun!—
Methinks I see this sun of future days,
Spread far abroad his diplomatic rays—
See life and health submit to his controul,
And like a planet, death around him roll.

Methinks I see a stately fabric rise,
Rear'd on the skulls of these our enemies:
I see the bones of our invet'rate foes
Hang round its walls in scientific rows.
There solemn sit the learned of the day
Dispensing death with uncontrouled sway,
And by prescription regulate with ease
The sudden crisis or the slow disease.

Then shall physicians their millenium find,
And reign the real sov'reigns of mankind:
Then shall the face of this vile world be chang'd—
And nature's healthful laws all new arrang'd—
In min'ral powders all her dust shall rise,
And all her insects shall be Spanish flies:
In medicated potions streams shall flow,
Pills fall in hail-storms, and sharp salts in snow;
In ev'ry quagmire bolusses be found,
And slimy cataplasms spread the ground—
Nature herself assume the chymist's part,
And furnish poisons unsublim'd by art.

Then to our schools shall wealth in currents flow,
Our theatres no want of subjects know;
Nor laws nor mobs th' Anatomist shall dread,
For graves shall freely render up their dead.

The Negro Burial ground.

A law past at New. York, making it penal to steal bodies from the burial ground.

The wheelbarrow of Pennsylvania.

The Menical College.

FINIS.

University of Virginia Library

3. VOLUME III.

TO THE Rev. Mr. WILLIAM SMITH,

ON HEARING HIS SERMON UPON THE DEATH OF Mr. WILLIAM THOMAS MARTIN.

ODE ON MUSIC.

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To Miss ---,

On HER KIND ASSISTANCE IN THE VOCAL PARTS OF AN ORATORICAL EXERCISE, PERFORMED AT THE COLLEGE OF Philadelphia.

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To THE MEMORY OF Mr. WILLIAM WILLCOCKS,

A BELOVED FRIEND.

HERMITAGE, A POEM,

INSCRIBED TO Mr. JACOB DUCHÉ, JUN.

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ADVICE TO AMANDA.

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AN EPIGRAM.

ON THE DEATH OF A FAVOURITE LAP DOG.

L'ALLEGRO.

IL PENSEROSO.

A MORNING HYMN.

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AN ELEGY.

ON THE DEATH OF Mrs. JANE WILCOCKS.

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Inscribed to the officers of the 35th regiment on their embarkation for the expedition against Louisbourg.

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