Specimens of American poetry :: :: University of Virginia Library

“There my son lies, stripp'd, and bleeding;
Fast, with thongs, his hands are bound.
See, the tyrants, how they scourge him!
See his sides a reeking wound

“See his little sister by him;
Quaking, trembling, how she lies!
Drops of blood her face besprinkle;
Tears of anguish fill her eyes.

“Now they tear her brother from her;
Down, below the deck, he's thrown;
Stiff with beating, through fear silent,
Save a single, death-like, groan.”

Hear the little creature begging!—
“Take me, white men, for your own!
Spare, oh, spare my darling brother!
He 's my mother's only son.

“See, upon the shore she's raving:
Down she falls upon the sands:
Now, she tears her flesh with madness;
Now, she prays with lifted hands.

“I am young, and strong, and hardy;
He 's a sick, and feeble boy;
Take me, whip me, chain me, starve me,
All my life I'll toil with joy.

“Christians! who 's the God you worship?
Is he cruel, fierce, or good?
Does he take delight in mercy?
Or in spilling human blood?

“Ah, my poor distracted mother!
Hear her scream upon the shore.”—
Down the savage captain struck her,
Lifeless on the vessel's floor.

Up his sails he quickly hoisted,
To the ocean bent his way;
Headlong plunged the raving mother,
From a high rock, in the sea.

ECHO NO. 14.

“Our song resounds a thunder storm once more—
“But Norwich' far transcends Bostonia's roar.”

On Monday last, the sun with scorching ray,
Pour'd down on Norwich rocks a red hot day,
Along the streets no verdant weeds appear'd,
No blades of grass the geese and goslings cheer'd,
No brook, nor pond, mud-puddle, slough, nor pool,
Where ducks might paddle, and where pigs might cool:
But all was so completely burnt and bare,
That had old Babel's king been pastured there,
On such short feed, (I do not mean to joke)
He never would have staid without a poke.
At length, slow rising up north-western skies,
Some little clouds about Elijah's size,
Told us in hints and indications plain,
That they were sensible we wanted rain.
At first the teazing showers our patience tried,
By sailing northerly at distance wide,
Till three o'clock—when lo! a wondrous cloud,

Full dress'd in sable black like funeral shroud,
Rose in the west, and climb'd its awful way,
In proud defiance of the god of day,
Who soon perceived his rays were vainly shed,
And therefore rashly stripp'd, and went to bed.
But not much used to blankets in the heat
Of June, his godship soon began to sweat,
And snore, and puff, and piteously complain,
Which we mistook for thunder, wind and rain.
This reverend cloud came on with dreadful rumpus,
Wafted by winds which blew all round the compass,
And to the mind (the medium of sight)
A scene presented pregnant with affright.
For overcharged with true electric shot,
(Which all who've felt, well know are rather hot)
As musket loaded deep on training day,
When Captain Flip commands to “bouze away,”
From breech to muzzle splits in splinters dire—
The cloud incessant burst in streams of fire;
While o'er the inky vault the lustre spread,
And streak'd the concave with surprising red.
Some of these streaks were follow'd by a roar,
Which came so near the streak that went before,
That if the first the earth did ever find,
The latter surely was not far behind.
And though we have not heard which way they went,
What place they stopp'd at, where their fury spent,
Whene'er they're found, like birds of equal feather,
I'll lay my ears you'll find them both together.
The ardent cloud continued to unlade,
Like sea-sick man in violent cascade,
Till evening shades, afraid to see the light,
Took care to spread the curtains of the night,
But all in vain—old Sol, his sweating o'er,
Kick'd off the clothes, and still'd his tuneful snore,
Just raised his head and oped his drowsy eyes,
And gave one flash of lightning through the skies,
When lo! the stars who thought the night begun,
In wild amazement started back and run;
While nodding Phœbus, trimm'd in slumbering cap,
Yawn'd out a smile and took his evening nap.
But Luna, somewhat wiser than the rest,
Stepp'd softly out, in pink and silver dress'd,
And trode with cautious step the western way,
To see if all were safe where Phœbus lay:
For well she knew if Sol again should rise,

And catch her idly flaunting round the skies,
He'd make her strip to gratify his ire,
And dress herself in every day's attire.
But when she found he certainly reposed,
His lamp in truth burnt out, his eye-lids closed,
Round heaven's high arch her car celestial roll'd,
O'er starry pavements gemm'd with living gold,
From orb to orb her fiery coursers flew,
And new born splendors clothed the etherial blue.
The feather'd tribe o'erjoy'd to lose the storm,
Now ventured forth in many a cackling swarm.
And fill'd with noise upraised the plumy wing,
And stretch'd on tiptoe oped their throats to sing,
And all around, from every stump and tree,
Proceeded songs of praise, and songs of glee;
While men and beasts stood staring all the while,
To see creation ope her mouth and smile.
The earth has got of rain a good supply,
And everything is wet that late was dry—
Now nature's self with mighty legs and voice,
May skip in earthquakes and in songs rejoice,
While man, the master of the tuneful throng,
Shall sound the pitch, and lead the choral song.

P. S. As such a storm does rarely fly
For nought across the azure sky,
'T is said that on the self-same night
Three cows were kill'd at Bolton by 't!
Poor Mr Wythe two years ago,
Had his barn burnt exactly so.

From the Norwich Packet, of June 20, 1793.

“Monday the 27th inst. being very warm, there appeared in the N. W. several small clouds, which indicated what the earth greatly stood in need of, viz. showers of rain, which afterwards collected and directed their course to the northward of this place, till about three o'clock, when a cloud clothed in sable black gathered in the west, arose and passed in a direct line over this city: wafted with uncommon violence by the wind fluctuating in various directions, presented to the human mind a spectacle alarming to behold: it was highly charged with electric fluid, and almost incessantly burst in streams of crimson fire, which streaked the heavens with astonishing lustre; several of which, from the near connexion between the blaze and report, must have reached the earth not far distant, though we do not learn of any consequential damages sustained. It continued to disburden itself of its contents with unremitted ardor and violence until the shades of evening had spread around us the curtains of the night, when it gradually disappeared; and the horizon shone again clear and bright. Gay Luna who in majestic sway was now travelling the downward skies shone with unusual splendor, and the star bespangled canopy of heaven furnished a scene at once beautiful to the eye of the beholder. The feathered tribe who during the storm were hushed in silence, now erected their plumy wings, as one, attuned to the God of nature their feeble songs of praise, and the neighboring groves amidst creation's smiles, harmonized music echoed through the skies! the earth has received a goodly supply of rain, and the works of nature, undisturbed, laugh and rejoice; let audible gratitude awake the voice of man on this occasion for one of the choicest of heaven's blessings.

“We hear that three cows were killed at Bolton last Monday evening, by the lightning.”

LINES ON THE DEATH OF WASHINGTON.

Far, far from hence be satire's aspect rude,
No more let laughter's frolic-face intrude,
But every heart be fill'd with deepest gloom,
Each form be clad with vestments of the tomb.
From Vernon's sacred hill dark sorrows flow,
Spread o'er the land, and shroud the world in wo.
From Mississippi's proud, majestic flood,
To where St. Croix meanders through the wood,
Let business cease, let vain amusements fly,
Let parties mingle, and let faction die,
The realm perform, by warm affection led,
Funereal honors to the mighty dead.

Where shall the heart for consolation turn,
Where end its grief, or how forget to mourn?
Beyond these clouds appears no cheering ray,
No morning star proclaims th' approach of day.
Ask hoary Age from whence his sorrows come,
His voice is silent, and his sorrow dumb;
Enquire of Infancy why droops his head,
The prattler lisps—“great Washington is dead.”
Why bend yon statesmen o'er their task severe?
Why drops yon chief the unavailing tear?
What sullen grief hangs o'er yon martial band?
What deep distress pervades the extended land?
In sad responses sounds from shore to shore—
“Our Friend, our Guide, our Father is no more.”

Let fond remembrance turn his aching sight,
Survey the past, dispel oblivion's night,
By Glory led, pursue the mazy road,
Which leads the traveller to her high abode,
Then view that great, that venerated name,
Inscribed in sunbeams on the roll of Fame.
No lapse of years shall soil the sacred spot,
No future age its memory shall blot;
Millions unborn shall mark its sacred fire,
And latest Time behold it and admire.

A widow'd country! what protecting form
Shall ope thy pathway through the gathering storm!
What mighty hand thy trembling bark shall guide,
Through Faction's rough and overwhelming tide!
The hour is past—thy Washington no more
Descries, with angel-ken, the peaceful shore.
Freed from the terrors of his awful eye,
No more fell Treason seeks a midnight sky,
But crawling forth, on deadliest mischief bent,
Rears her black front, and toils with cursed intent.
Behold! arranged in long, and black array,
Prepared for conflict, thirsting for their prey,
Our foes advance,—nor force nor danger dread,
Their fears all vanish'd when his spirit fled.
Oft, when our bosoms, fill'd with dire dismay,
Saw mischief gather round our country's way;
When furious Discord seized her flaming brand,
And threatened ruin to our infant land;
When faction's imps sow'd thick the seeds of strife,
And aim'd destruction at the bliss of life;
When war with bloody hand her flag unfurl'd,

And her loud trump alarm'd the western world;
His awful voice bade all contention cease,
At his commands the storms were hush'd to peace.

But who can speak, what accents can relate,
The solemn scenes which marked the great man's fate!
Ye ancient sages, who so loudly claim
The brightest station on the list of Fame,
At his approach with diffidence retire,
His higher worth acknowledge, and admire.
When keenest anguish rack'd his mighty mind,
And the fond heart the joys of life resign'd,
No guilt, nor terror stretch'd its hard control,
No doubt obscured the sunshine of the soul.
Prepared for death, his calm and steady eye,
Look'd fearless upward to a peaceful sky;
While wondering angels point the airy road,
Which leads the Christian to the house of God.

LINES ADDRESSED TO A MOTHER, WHO HAD BEEN ABSENT FROM HOME SEVERAL WEEKS, ON HER SEEING HER INFANT CHILD ASLEEP.

Wrapp'd in innocent repose,
Lost to all its little woes,
See that lovely infant rest,
On the pillow's downy breast.
Wearied with the toils of day,
Little frolics, childish play,
Frequent joy, and frequent grief,
Nature yields a short relief.
Say, my sleeping cherub, say,
Whither doth thy spirit stray?
Art thou flown to realms above,
On some angel's wings of love,
Where, array'd in purest white,
Dwell the sainted sons of light,
Hymning round the eternal throne,
Praise to God's Almighty Son?
Or dost thou now at random roam;
Through creation's nightly tomb,
Borne by Death's insidious power,
To his temporary bower?

Hush the thought!—I see thee smile!
Dreams thy little heart beguile;
O'er thy sweet, enchanting face,
Steals inimitable grace.
Say, my little cherub, say,
Whither doth thy spirit stray?
Hark!—his answering smile replies—
“Far from hence my spirit flies;
Borne on Fancy's wing, I move
To a mother's arms of love,
And clasp'd in sweet embraces, rest
On her balmy angel-breast.
Here the tides of pleasure roll,
Rapture charms the licensed soul,
Here divinest transports play,
Here affection loves to stray,
Here I share the envied kiss,
Sink in pleasure, drown in bliss.
Spotless as the beams of light,
Crowding on the ravish'd sight,
Ever new its beauties rise,
Charming unforbidden eyes.
Hark!—My mother's voice benign,
Speaks in harmony divine”—
Peaceful here, my infant rest,
On your raptured parent's breast.
Here no hand shall enter rude,
No unhallow'd eye intrude;
In this paradise of joy,
Dwells no spirit to destroy;
But, on Virtue's spotless throne,
Thy happy Father reigns alone,
Licensed here alone to move,
Bathing in voluptuous love,
Pleasure here without alloy,
Pours an endless stream of joy,
While its blissful currents roll,
Through the mazes of his soul.