 | The Last Poems of Philip Freneau |  |
61
To a Young Farmer
To Cambria's College sent astray,
You leave a mass of WORK behind
Science calls, her call obey,
She gives a polish to the mind,
For there is learned what Euclid taught,
And Plato dreamed, and Newton thought.
You leave a mass of WORK behind
Science calls, her call obey,
She gives a polish to the mind,
For there is learned what Euclid taught,
And Plato dreamed, and Newton thought.
Seven years of youth are far too much
To study Greek, or study Dutch;
And yet, the lust, some people shew,
Is the most useful of the two.
To study Greek, or study Dutch;
And yet, the lust, some people shew,
Is the most useful of the two.
None writ a better style than HE
Who fought us into Liberty;
And yet, to Linguists be it known,
He knew no language but his own.
Who fought us into Liberty;
And yet, to Linguists be it known,
He knew no language but his own.
The diamond, from its dark abode,
Is worth the care to polish well;
But pebbles on the turnpike road,
Tho' polished, none would buy or sell:
To polish such would be no crime,
But surely, truly,—loss of time—
To crust the road is all their end,
Nor farther Nature did intend.
Is worth the care to polish well;
But pebbles on the turnpike road,
Tho' polished, none would buy or sell:
To polish such would be no crime,
But surely, truly,—loss of time—
To crust the road is all their end,
Nor farther Nature did intend.
Released from care, from labors free,
In College Glooms who turns recluse
May know what Grecians termed a TREE,
And what the old Romans called a GOOSE:
With empty sounds he feeds his mind,
And not the knowledge of mankind—
In College Glooms who turns recluse
May know what Grecians termed a TREE,
And what the old Romans called a GOOSE:
With empty sounds he feeds his mind,
And not the knowledge of mankind—
62
Nor even THE KNOWLEDGE OF THE SOIL,
Transcending all that man can know;
The ART that makes the kettle boil,
The art that bids the harvests grow,
The art of arts, that never fails,
That fills the dish, and swells the sails.
Transcending all that man can know;
The ART that makes the kettle boil,
The art that bids the harvests grow,
The art of arts, that never fails,
That fills the dish, and swells the sails.
By poring long on bulky Tomes,
The labors of the honored dead,
The shallow brain a pride assumes
That proves, indeed, a vacant head.
The brightest wits are glad to own
They know—how little can be known.
The labors of the honored dead,
The shallow brain a pride assumes
That proves, indeed, a vacant head.
The brightest wits are glad to own
They know—how little can be known.
The slippers red, the morning gown,
I like them not—away! away!
The soft mattress and beds of down
Should be exchanged for beds of hay,
Where Labor finds a sounder nap
Than Sloth, indulged on pleasure's lap.
I like them not—away! away!
The soft mattress and beds of down
Should be exchanged for beds of hay,
Where Labor finds a sounder nap
Than Sloth, indulged on pleasure's lap.
The silken gloves, the lady's hand,
May do for students, pale and thin;
But YOU—foredoomed to till the land
With sweat of brow, and many a grin,
Take care your paws are better stuff
And near a-kin to Adam's Buff.
May do for students, pale and thin;
But YOU—foredoomed to till the land
With sweat of brow, and many a grin,
Take care your paws are better stuff
And near a-kin to Adam's Buff.
| The Last Poems of Philip Freneau | |