 | [Poems by Hopkins in] The Echo |  |
295
SKETCHES OF THE TIMES, FOR THE YEAR 1803.
296
Sketches of the Times.
HARTFORD, JANUARY, 1804.
What vast advantages we findResult from Poets to mankind?
Borne on their sure recording page,
Fame sounds her trump from age to age;
And though Destruction's besoms sweep
Whole nations to Oblivion's deep—
Though heroes, patriots, sages die,
And in the grave unnotic'd lie—
Yet Poesy, with magic pen,
Relumes the fading fame of men,
In deathless numbers sings their story,
And rears their pyramid of glory.
Without the aid of Homer's song,
Where would have been the Grecian throng;
Who would Achilles' name have known,
Or who old Priam's god-like son?
Who bore his venerable Sire,
Safe through the midst of Ilium's fire,
On Latium's shores that flag unfurl'd,
Which wav'd in triumph o'er the world,
Ask Mantua's Bard—
And shall the great of modern days,
Fail of the meed of future praise?
Shall not remotest ages see
The lights of Eighteen hundred three?
Shall Jefferson, grown old and spleeny,
In dudgeon quit his “red Arena,”
From fame “occluded,” dark and dreary,
Plunge headlong into death's “vast prairie”?
Shall Johnny Randolph cease to bloom?
Shall Paine reel silent to the tomb?
Shall Gallatin unheeded stray
Adown Time's dark and cheerless way,
Without one friendly tongue to tell,
Who “stopp'd of government de veel”?
Or Farmer Lincoln drag his name,
Through “oppugnation” up to fame?
Shall nought of Granger be rehears'd,
But, that the bag of wind is burst?
Shall Fate's “Recorder” only say—
“Cheetham and Dun were hang'd to day”?—
Justice forbid—Their names shall ring,
Till the last Poets cease to sing;
And though old Homer's spirit's fled,
Though Virgil's number'd with the dead;
Some genius, fir'd for humbler lays,
Shall register their claim to praise,
To unborn Homers transmit down,
Their memoranda of renown.
Fail of the meed of future praise?
297
The lights of Eighteen hundred three?
Shall Jefferson, grown old and spleeny,
In dudgeon quit his “red Arena,”
From fame “occluded,” dark and dreary,
Plunge headlong into death's “vast prairie”?
Shall Johnny Randolph cease to bloom?
Shall Paine reel silent to the tomb?
Shall Gallatin unheeded stray
Adown Time's dark and cheerless way,
Without one friendly tongue to tell,
Who “stopp'd of government de veel”?
Or Farmer Lincoln drag his name,
Through “oppugnation” up to fame?
Shall nought of Granger be rehears'd,
But, that the bag of wind is burst?
Shall Fate's “Recorder” only say—
“Cheetham and Dun were hang'd to day”?—
Justice forbid—Their names shall ring,
Till the last Poets cease to sing;
And though old Homer's spirit's fled,
Though Virgil's number'd with the dead;
Some genius, fir'd for humbler lays,
Shall register their claim to praise,
To unborn Homers transmit down,
Their memoranda of renown.
But, as the weather grows severe,
We'll just survey the country here,
Pick up the patriots few that stray,
And drag their merits into day,
Mark how the Rights of Man are further'd,
Then spend the winter at the Southward.
We'll just survey the country here,
298
And drag their merits into day,
Mark how the Rights of Man are further'd,
Then spend the winter at the Southward.
And here, in erring reason's spite,
'Mid storms of truth, and floods of light,
Unmov'd by threats, unaw'd by fears,
Connecticut her front uprears.
On Democratic frontiers plac'd,
By spirits base and foul disgrac'd,
Annoy'd with Jacobinic engines,
And doom'd to Governmental vengeance,
Strait on her course she firmly steers,
Nor gibes, nor tacks, nor scuds, nor veers,
Not the whole force they all can yield,
Can drive her vet'rans from the field.
The same pure, patriotic fires,
Which warm'd the bosoms of their Sires,
That generous, that effulgent flame,
Which glow'd in Winthrop's deathless name,
Unsullied through their bosoms runs,
Inspires and animates their sons.
'Mid storms of truth, and floods of light,
Unmov'd by threats, unaw'd by fears,
Connecticut her front uprears.
On Democratic frontiers plac'd,
By spirits base and foul disgrac'd,
Annoy'd with Jacobinic engines,
And doom'd to Governmental vengeance,
Strait on her course she firmly steers,
Nor gibes, nor tacks, nor scuds, nor veers,
Not the whole force they all can yield,
Can drive her vet'rans from the field.
The same pure, patriotic fires,
Which warm'd the bosoms of their Sires,
That generous, that effulgent flame,
Which glow'd in Winthrop's deathless name,
Unsullied through their bosoms runs,
Inspires and animates their sons.
Last spring, the atmosphere was hazy,
The tempest lower'd, the path was mazy;
All hearts prognosticated evil,
And all seem'd running to the devil.
But luckily, the means were taken,
And just in time to save our bacon,
The Democrats for conquest striving,
The trumpet sounded for Thanksgiving.
By Libertines and Deacons sign'd,
The summons call'd on deaf and blind,
On knaves and blockheads, old and young,
Of every colour, craft, and tongue,
Through mud and mire, in March to meet,
And draggle round New-Haven street,
Recount each Democratic duty,
Show General Hart in all his beauty,
“Lead up” their sweethearts and their spouses,
To dalliance sweet in “private houses,”
Get drunk by day—and snug by night,
Chaunt forth “Moll Carey” —“Tune Delight,
When lo!—to circumvent the matter,
Poor Abra'm dropp'd his circ'lar letter!!!
Like wildfire round the story flew,
And the whole plot disclos'd to view.
And though Tim Dexter's hopeful son,
Kept sentry o'er the morning gun,
And as the “ragged throng” pass'd by,
Shot “Memorandums” through the sky;
Though Judd and Kirby came prepar'd,
To reap the Democrat's reward,
Though General Hart, when all was still,
Bravely retir'd to make his will,
Though Paine got drunk, and was not there,
And David Austin made a pray'r,
And rang'd by Powell, grave and sage,
Twelve of the sleekest grac'd a stage—
Yet all in vain—The farce was o'er,
And Democrats give thanks no more;
Resolv'd henceforward to grow wise,
And trust their cause to fraud and lies,
Abandon every childish caper,
And rest their hopes on Babcock's paper.
The tempest lower'd, the path was mazy;
All hearts prognosticated evil,
And all seem'd running to the devil.
But luckily, the means were taken,
And just in time to save our bacon,
299
The trumpet sounded for Thanksgiving.
By Libertines and Deacons sign'd,
The summons call'd on deaf and blind,
On knaves and blockheads, old and young,
Of every colour, craft, and tongue,
Through mud and mire, in March to meet,
And draggle round New-Haven street,
Recount each Democratic duty,
Show General Hart in all his beauty,
“Lead up” their sweethearts and their spouses,
To dalliance sweet in “private houses,”
Get drunk by day—and snug by night,
Chaunt forth “Moll Carey” —“Tune Delight,
When lo!—to circumvent the matter,
Poor Abra'm dropp'd his circ'lar letter!!!
Like wildfire round the story flew,
And the whole plot disclos'd to view.
And though Tim Dexter's hopeful son,
Kept sentry o'er the morning gun,
And as the “ragged throng” pass'd by,
Shot “Memorandums” through the sky;
Though Judd and Kirby came prepar'd,
To reap the Democrat's reward,
Though General Hart, when all was still,
Bravely retir'd to make his will,
300
And David Austin made a pray'r,
And rang'd by Powell, grave and sage,
Twelve of the sleekest grac'd a stage—
Yet all in vain—The farce was o'er,
And Democrats give thanks no more;
Resolv'd henceforward to grow wise,
And trust their cause to fraud and lies,
Abandon every childish caper,
And rest their hopes on Babcock's paper.
Poor souls—before this stubborn State,
To Democrats resigns its fate,
Your growth of timber must be shifted,
Your character from filth be lifted.
Will Freemen virtuous, just, and brave,
Of tempers firm, and manners grave,
To Freedom born, by Plenty fed,
By Trumbull and by Ellsworth led,
Bow down their necks to Slavery's bands,
And trust themselves in Kirby's hands?
Shall Abraham Bishop guard their morals?
And Wolcott settle all their quarrels?
But let us leave New-Haven racket,
And go to New-York in the packet:
Where we shall find the Clinton band,
Of morals pure, of manners bland,
With swords, and staves, and whip and spur,
Rush forth to war with Col. Burr.
So have I seen, with fiery rage,
A Hawk and Snake, in fight engage,
For such a combat nothing loth,
Nor'd care if Satan had them both.
To Democrats resigns its fate,
Your growth of timber must be shifted,
Your character from filth be lifted.
Will Freemen virtuous, just, and brave,
Of tempers firm, and manners grave,
To Freedom born, by Plenty fed,
By Trumbull and by Ellsworth led,
Bow down their necks to Slavery's bands,
And trust themselves in Kirby's hands?
Shall Abraham Bishop guard their morals?
And Wolcott settle all their quarrels?
But let us leave New-Haven racket,
And go to New-York in the packet:
Where we shall find the Clinton band,
Of morals pure, of manners bland,
With swords, and staves, and whip and spur,
Rush forth to war with Col. Burr.
301
A Hawk and Snake, in fight engage,
For such a combat nothing loth,
Nor'd care if Satan had them both.
Poor Pennsylvania sweats amain,
Beneath the rod of Tom McKean.
This rich, this proud, degraded state,
Is hastening onward to its fate.
Here foreign rogues of every tongue,
Like Pharaoh's frogs by thousands throng;
On posts of honour fix their eyes,
O'erpower the good by fraud and lies,
Drive Justice from her sacred seat,
Tread Law and Order under feet;
By falsehood fire the rabble rude,
And loose the dogs of war and blood.
No kingdom underneath the sun,
No state, nor nation but our own,
E'er spread such tempting lures, or gave
Such rich rewards to every knave.
Beneath the rod of Tom McKean.
This rich, this proud, degraded state,
Is hastening onward to its fate.
Here foreign rogues of every tongue,
Like Pharaoh's frogs by thousands throng;
On posts of honour fix their eyes,
O'erpower the good by fraud and lies,
Drive Justice from her sacred seat,
Tread Law and Order under feet;
By falsehood fire the rabble rude,
And loose the dogs of war and blood.
No kingdom underneath the sun,
No state, nor nation but our own,
E'er spread such tempting lures, or gave
Such rich rewards to every knave.
And yet, each grumbling tory dares
Arraign the “gestion of affairs”—
When were they manag'd half so well,
In point of prudence, or of skill?
Our President, as each one knows, is
As strong as Sampson, meek as Moses,
As Solon good, as chaste as ice,
(Black Sal is all a heap of lies)
Not quite so brave as old Suwarrow,
But loaded with the people's sorrow;
And spite of all old Jones can say,
Knows how to borrow, and to pay.
Beneath his kind and fostering hand,
What blessings overwhelm the land.
Our debt is paid with so much vigour,
'Tis grown about a quarter bigger;
Sal'ries which were so high before,
Have hoisted up a quarter more;
The taxes too are done away,
And Labour's mouth has nought to pay;
Loaf sugar free from duty passes,
And Jersey people drink molasses.
What stupid Fed'ralist shall dare,
Wolcott with Gallatin compare?
Roll'd on his tongue, our language mends,
He holds finance at finger's ends;
And while his former Whiskey neighbours,
Reap the rich harvest of his labours,
Pour down dog-cheap th' enlivening rill,
All hot, and luscious from the still;
Yet still our patriot merchants pay,
And save our Treasury from decay.
This is the true Virginia plan,
Built on the equal rights of man—
“That Commerce should the burthens bear,
“And Labour's mouth be free as air”—
For where does Commerce spread her sails,
Where brave the storms, or court the gales?
Along Virginia's sullen shore,
Scarce floats a barque, or strikes an oar,
No hardy seaman mounts the mast,
Nor whistles at th' approaching blast.
But Eastward turn the searching eye—
What fairy scenes before us lie?—
There Commerce spreads unnumber'd sails,
There braves the storms, and courts the gales,
Vast fleets old Ocean's bosom ride,
And wealth flows in with every tide.
Hence springs that firm resistless pow'r,
Which meets unmov'd the threat'ning hour,
That spirit which no fears controul,
That fire which warms the freeborn soul.
Arraign the “gestion of affairs”—
When were they manag'd half so well,
In point of prudence, or of skill?
Our President, as each one knows, is
As strong as Sampson, meek as Moses,
As Solon good, as chaste as ice,
(Black Sal is all a heap of lies)
302
But loaded with the people's sorrow;
And spite of all old Jones can say,
Knows how to borrow, and to pay.
Beneath his kind and fostering hand,
What blessings overwhelm the land.
Our debt is paid with so much vigour,
'Tis grown about a quarter bigger;
Sal'ries which were so high before,
Have hoisted up a quarter more;
The taxes too are done away,
And Labour's mouth has nought to pay;
Loaf sugar free from duty passes,
And Jersey people drink molasses.
What stupid Fed'ralist shall dare,
Wolcott with Gallatin compare?
Roll'd on his tongue, our language mends,
He holds finance at finger's ends;
And while his former Whiskey neighbours,
Reap the rich harvest of his labours,
Pour down dog-cheap th' enlivening rill,
All hot, and luscious from the still;
Yet still our patriot merchants pay,
And save our Treasury from decay.
This is the true Virginia plan,
Built on the equal rights of man—
“That Commerce should the burthens bear,
“And Labour's mouth be free as air”—
303
Where brave the storms, or court the gales?
Along Virginia's sullen shore,
Scarce floats a barque, or strikes an oar,
No hardy seaman mounts the mast,
Nor whistles at th' approaching blast.
But Eastward turn the searching eye—
What fairy scenes before us lie?—
There Commerce spreads unnumber'd sails,
There braves the storms, and courts the gales,
Vast fleets old Ocean's bosom ride,
And wealth flows in with every tide.
Hence springs that firm resistless pow'r,
Which meets unmov'd the threat'ning hour,
That spirit which no fears controul,
That fire which warms the freeborn soul.
Nor stands the Genevese alone—
A chosen club surround the throne.
The Farmer can his goose-quill draw,
On politics as well as law;
Dearborne performs his duty well,
Except when call'd upon to spell;
And when depriv'd of every shift
Paine takes a sling, and gives a lift.
For though, when sober, Tom is dull,
Stupid, and filthy as a gull,
Yet give him brandy, and the elf,
Will talk all night about himself;
And whilst his patron stands amaz'd,
Waiting to hear himself be-prais'd,
The drunken sot does nought but cry,
And sing, and write, of Mr. I.
Such skill have Granger's projects shew'd,
O'er those which Habersham pursued,
So nicely does his compass traverse,
In shifting men for “faithful service,”
That ere two years have run their race,
By travelling nights as well as days,
The Income's risen through Hobbles dirty,
From Eighty Thousand, down to Thirty.
Our councils too are well conducted,
Resolves well drawn, laws well constructed;
Claibornes and Cloptons take the lead,
And Triggs, and Nincompoops succeed,
Dawson presides in high debate,
And Randolph's Minister of State.
What though sometimes the club gets puzzled,
By Griswold's Fed'ral cunning muzzled,
And the affrighted, speechless throng,
Close first the doors, and then the tongue,
Though Nancy Dawson lisps surmises,
And little David's choler rises,
And Centum Vir on knees devout,
Begs Septon's aid to bear them out,
Yet Dana brings them to a stand,
And bids their silent jaws expand,
The doors unclose, their hinges creak,
And the dumb Legislature speak.
Our philosophic Chief prepares
“Essays tow'rds statements of affairs;”
Wakes once a year from fancy's dreams,
And hatches a whole brood of schemes—
Behold! secure from leaks, and worms,
From tides, from shipwreck, and from storms,
From privateers, and dashing waves,
Rocks, whirlpools, and old Ocean's caves,
Safe in a hovel, high and dry,
Flat on their sides our ships shall lie.
No corsair there shall dare intrude,
No pirate show his visage rude,
Not e'en Goose-creek shall dare to lave,
Their Lordly timbers with its wave.
Thus arm'd, what pow'r shall dare invade
Our harbours, or annoy our trade?
While proud Potowmac rolls her flood
Unruffled o'er her native mud,
The Dry-Dock cannon's awful roar,
Shall guard Penobscot's distant shore.
Nay, ships henceforth, shall plough the strand,
And ride secure from land to land;
While arm'd en flute, shall Granger's mail,
On turnpike roads hoist every sail,
Through wilds unknown, undaunted steer,
Give every Indian tribe a cheer,
Pass Mississippi's new toll-bridge,
And anchor on the Salt mount's ridge.
How slow the human mind proceeds
In that bright path, where Science leads!
How sluggishly up Reason's steeps,
Dull Common Sense phlegmatic creeps!
Eustis this useful plan derided,
(Great men will sometimes be divided)
E'en that great reasoner, Friar Bacon,
Said—“No Sir,”—when the vote was taken.
Thus was this brilliant theory lost,
And thus philosophy was crost—
Dry-Docks are jeer'd at as a whim,
And vessels now must sink or swim,
Men risk their necks 'mongst rocks and caves,
And now and then find wat'ry graves.
A chosen club surround the throne.
The Farmer can his goose-quill draw,
On politics as well as law;
Dearborne performs his duty well,
Except when call'd upon to spell;
And when depriv'd of every shift
Paine takes a sling, and gives a lift.
For though, when sober, Tom is dull,
Stupid, and filthy as a gull,
Yet give him brandy, and the elf,
Will talk all night about himself;
304
Waiting to hear himself be-prais'd,
The drunken sot does nought but cry,
And sing, and write, of Mr. I.
Such skill have Granger's projects shew'd,
O'er those which Habersham pursued,
So nicely does his compass traverse,
In shifting men for “faithful service,”
That ere two years have run their race,
By travelling nights as well as days,
The Income's risen through Hobbles dirty,
From Eighty Thousand, down to Thirty.
Our councils too are well conducted,
Resolves well drawn, laws well constructed;
Claibornes and Cloptons take the lead,
And Triggs, and Nincompoops succeed,
Dawson presides in high debate,
And Randolph's Minister of State.
What though sometimes the club gets puzzled,
By Griswold's Fed'ral cunning muzzled,
And the affrighted, speechless throng,
Close first the doors, and then the tongue,
Though Nancy Dawson lisps surmises,
And little David's choler rises,
And Centum Vir on knees devout,
Begs Septon's aid to bear them out,
305
And bids their silent jaws expand,
The doors unclose, their hinges creak,
And the dumb Legislature speak.
Our philosophic Chief prepares
“Essays tow'rds statements of affairs;”
Wakes once a year from fancy's dreams,
And hatches a whole brood of schemes—
Behold! secure from leaks, and worms,
From tides, from shipwreck, and from storms,
From privateers, and dashing waves,
Rocks, whirlpools, and old Ocean's caves,
Safe in a hovel, high and dry,
Flat on their sides our ships shall lie.
No corsair there shall dare intrude,
No pirate show his visage rude,
Not e'en Goose-creek shall dare to lave,
Their Lordly timbers with its wave.
306
Our harbours, or annoy our trade?
While proud Potowmac rolls her flood
Unruffled o'er her native mud,
The Dry-Dock cannon's awful roar,
Shall guard Penobscot's distant shore.
Nay, ships henceforth, shall plough the strand,
And ride secure from land to land;
While arm'd en flute, shall Granger's mail,
On turnpike roads hoist every sail,
Through wilds unknown, undaunted steer,
Give every Indian tribe a cheer,
Pass Mississippi's new toll-bridge,
And anchor on the Salt mount's ridge.
How slow the human mind proceeds
In that bright path, where Science leads!
How sluggishly up Reason's steeps,
Dull Common Sense phlegmatic creeps!
Eustis this useful plan derided,
(Great men will sometimes be divided)
E'en that great reasoner, Friar Bacon,
Said—“No Sir,”—when the vote was taken.
Thus was this brilliant theory lost,
And thus philosophy was crost—
Dry-Docks are jeer'd at as a whim,
And vessels now must sink or swim,
Men risk their necks 'mongst rocks and caves,
And now and then find wat'ry graves.
307
But let us trace this mighty mind,
Form'd to amaze, and bless mankind—
See him commence Land-Speculator,
And buy up half the realm of nature,
Towns, cities, Indians, Spaniards, ‘prairies,’
Salt-petre vats, and buff'loe dairies,
Harvests all ripen'd for the sickle,
And salt enough the world to pickle—
Salt, which in rain and shine has stood,
From Adam's fall through Noah's flood,
And yet enough remains behind,
To cure the pork of all mankind.
Here too we find a soil so deep,
Wool grows on stumps as well as sheep;
And shrubs and trees, if e'er they grew,
Have lost their foothold, and slump'd through;
And men dare not, so soft's the road,
Without their snow-shoes walk abroad.
At random here the Mammoth browses,
As large as common meeting-houses;
Snakes reach the size of saw-mill logs,
And rats and mice as large as dogs;
Musquetoes weigh as much as crows
And man to such a giant grows,
So long, so wide, that at a meal,
He'll eat a loin of Mammoth veal.
Form'd to amaze, and bless mankind—
See him commence Land-Speculator,
And buy up half the realm of nature,
Towns, cities, Indians, Spaniards, ‘prairies,’
Salt-petre vats, and buff'loe dairies,
Harvests all ripen'd for the sickle,
And salt enough the world to pickle—
Salt, which in rain and shine has stood,
From Adam's fall through Noah's flood,
And yet enough remains behind,
To cure the pork of all mankind.
Here too we find a soil so deep,
Wool grows on stumps as well as sheep;
And shrubs and trees, if e'er they grew,
Have lost their foothold, and slump'd through;
And men dare not, so soft's the road,
Without their snow-shoes walk abroad.
At random here the Mammoth browses,
As large as common meeting-houses;
Snakes reach the size of saw-mill logs,
And rats and mice as large as dogs;
Musquetoes weigh as much as crows
And man to such a giant grows,
So long, so wide, that at a meal,
He'll eat a loin of Mammoth veal.
O'er this Canaan blest presides
The man, who all our interests guides—
Judge, Sheriff, President, and King,
Lawyer, Bum-Bailiff, every thing.
Beneath his philosophic sway,
A pure republic springs to day,
Free from Aristocratic pests,—
Soldiers, and Citizens, and Priests—
Here all pursue their strong desires,
Sires know no sons, and sons no sires,
Wives follow nature's high behest,
Try half a dozen, and choose the best,
And boys and girls, in wanton droves,
Indulge in unforbidden loves.
The man, who all our interests guides—
308
Lawyer, Bum-Bailiff, every thing.
Beneath his philosophic sway,
A pure republic springs to day,
Free from Aristocratic pests,—
Soldiers, and Citizens, and Priests—
Here all pursue their strong desires,
Sires know no sons, and sons no sires,
Wives follow nature's high behest,
Try half a dozen, and choose the best,
And boys and girls, in wanton droves,
Indulge in unforbidden loves.
Nor only in this distant sky,
Does light break in upon the eye;
The Spirit dire of Reformation,
Has rear'd her standard in the Nation—
What, though “the Lilliputian ties,”
Snap one by one before their eyes,
What, though the public wealth is squander'd,
The great and good by villains slander'd,
The hoary patriot robb'd of bread,
Pale Justice from the nation fled,
Though foreign outlaws blast our name,
Though vengance hunts our native fame,
Base falsehoods sneak, and slanders crawl,
And shakes the Union to its fall—
Still, still unmov'd the people stand,
And see fell Ruin mark the land—
See Freedom's Edifice decay,
Its lofty pillars torn away,
By Gothic hands its splendours soil'd,
Its dome defac'd, its turrets spoil'd.
Does light break in upon the eye;
The Spirit dire of Reformation,
Has rear'd her standard in the Nation—
What, though “the Lilliputian ties,”
Snap one by one before their eyes,
What, though the public wealth is squander'd,
The great and good by villains slander'd,
The hoary patriot robb'd of bread,
Pale Justice from the nation fled,
Though foreign outlaws blast our name,
Though vengance hunts our native fame,
Base falsehoods sneak, and slanders crawl,
And shakes the Union to its fall—
Still, still unmov'd the people stand,
And see fell Ruin mark the land—
309
Its lofty pillars torn away,
By Gothic hands its splendours soil'd,
Its dome defac'd, its turrets spoil'd.
The “Sovereign People” who compose?
The friends of freedom, or its foes?
Those are they who in dread array,
Dauntless met Britain in the affray—
Who (when War's ensigns, wide unfurl'd,
Spread tumult through the western world)
Seiz'd the rude musket, sword, and shield,
And throng'd by thousands to the field;
That little remnant which remains
From Bunker's heights, and York-Town's plains—
A glorious few, whose forms still bear,
The fearless front, the victor's scar—
Bright trophies in hard conflict won,
When led by Fame's Immortal Son?
Or are the owners of the soil,
Proud of the spot on which they toil,
Attach'd by habit, and by birth,
To freedom, government, and worth—
Are these the men whose voice is heard,
Whose wishes, or whose will rever'd?
Far other powers these States obey,
A different sovereign holds the sway—
A foreign, outcast, needy brood,
Blighted with crimes, and ripe for blood—
Those renegado gallows trains,
Which Ireland from her dungeons drains,
And pours, with an unceasing hand,
Like Egypt's plagues upon our land.
Who steal our letters, rob our stores,
Who lurk with firebrands round our doors,
Who plunder records of the State,
The virtuous blast, belie the great?
A foreign, outcast, needy brood,
Blighted with crimes, and ripe for blood.
These are the miserable tools,
By which the proud Virginia rules.
In myriads, lo! the miscreants come,
In search of freedom, and of rum,
Scarce do their footsteps reach the strand,
Scarce do they press the fated land,
Ere their whole souls with freedom burn,
And convicts into patriots turn:
On posts their greedy optics fix,
Fir'd with the spark of Seventy-six,
Call Adams, Jay, and Ellsworth tories,
Rob Washington of all his glories,
Claim for their own our Revolution,
And fondly brood the Constitution.
The friends of freedom, or its foes?
Those are they who in dread array,
Dauntless met Britain in the affray—
Who (when War's ensigns, wide unfurl'd,
Spread tumult through the western world)
Seiz'd the rude musket, sword, and shield,
And throng'd by thousands to the field;
That little remnant which remains
From Bunker's heights, and York-Town's plains—
A glorious few, whose forms still bear,
The fearless front, the victor's scar—
Bright trophies in hard conflict won,
When led by Fame's Immortal Son?
Or are the owners of the soil,
Proud of the spot on which they toil,
Attach'd by habit, and by birth,
To freedom, government, and worth—
Are these the men whose voice is heard,
Whose wishes, or whose will rever'd?
Far other powers these States obey,
A different sovereign holds the sway—
A foreign, outcast, needy brood,
Blighted with crimes, and ripe for blood—
310
Which Ireland from her dungeons drains,
And pours, with an unceasing hand,
Like Egypt's plagues upon our land.
Who steal our letters, rob our stores,
Who lurk with firebrands round our doors,
Who plunder records of the State,
The virtuous blast, belie the great?
A foreign, outcast, needy brood,
Blighted with crimes, and ripe for blood.
These are the miserable tools,
By which the proud Virginia rules.
In myriads, lo! the miscreants come,
In search of freedom, and of rum,
Scarce do their footsteps reach the strand,
Scarce do they press the fated land,
Ere their whole souls with freedom burn,
And convicts into patriots turn:
On posts their greedy optics fix,
Fir'd with the spark of Seventy-six,
Call Adams, Jay, and Ellsworth tories,
Rob Washington of all his glories,
Claim for their own our Revolution,
And fondly brood the Constitution.
Where are New-England's hardy sons?
How slow their ancient spirit runs?
Can they stand cold and tamely by,
And see in dust their country lie?
To Independence they were bred,
For Freedom oft they fought, and bled.
And shall the prize be basely lost,
Which so much blood, and treasure cost?
Forbid it shame—Then ere too late,
Ward off the dark impending fate.
That Party which now holds the helm,
Will ruin, or will rule the realm.
Go backward, all their footsteps trace,
Mark every winding of their race,
Their measures to one purpose tend,
All to one favourite object bend.
Arm'd at all points, they scour the field—
Our Union ties already yield,
Our Constitution's strength is gone,
Its pride, its Justice overthrown.
Lo! now the servile Band engage,
With party fire, and madd'ning rage,
To force our freeborn souls t' obey,
And bow beneath a despot's sway,
To fix their Man, through noise and strife,
Our King or President for life!
In one vast vortex sink the fates
And freedom of the Northern States,
Place in Virginia's hands the reins,
And bind our Sovereignty in chains.
What palsy numbs the Public hand!
What madness overspreads the land!
To Gallia turn the searching eye,
See millions there in bondage lie,
In adamantine fetters bound,
Oppress'd, and trodden to the ground.
See Switzerland in ruin spread,
See Holland number'd with the dead,
Half Europe kiss the iron rod,
And tremble at a Ruffian's nod.
Here let us pore on Freedom's tomb,
Here read our own approaching doom—
That doom from Anarchy which springs,
More dreadful than the worst of kings—
And from example, learn to save
The birthright which our FATHERS gave—
Laws equal, mild, and just, and pure,
Freedom from anarchy secure,
Firesides where heavenly bliss has flow'd,
And ALTARS consecrate to God.
How slow their ancient spirit runs?
Can they stand cold and tamely by,
And see in dust their country lie?
311
For Freedom oft they fought, and bled.
And shall the prize be basely lost,
Which so much blood, and treasure cost?
Forbid it shame—Then ere too late,
Ward off the dark impending fate.
That Party which now holds the helm,
Will ruin, or will rule the realm.
Go backward, all their footsteps trace,
Mark every winding of their race,
Their measures to one purpose tend,
All to one favourite object bend.
Arm'd at all points, they scour the field—
Our Union ties already yield,
Our Constitution's strength is gone,
Its pride, its Justice overthrown.
Lo! now the servile Band engage,
With party fire, and madd'ning rage,
To force our freeborn souls t' obey,
And bow beneath a despot's sway,
To fix their Man, through noise and strife,
Our King or President for life!
In one vast vortex sink the fates
And freedom of the Northern States,
Place in Virginia's hands the reins,
And bind our Sovereignty in chains.
What palsy numbs the Public hand!
What madness overspreads the land!
312
See millions there in bondage lie,
In adamantine fetters bound,
Oppress'd, and trodden to the ground.
See Switzerland in ruin spread,
See Holland number'd with the dead,
Half Europe kiss the iron rod,
And tremble at a Ruffian's nod.
Here let us pore on Freedom's tomb,
Here read our own approaching doom—
That doom from Anarchy which springs,
More dreadful than the worst of kings—
And from example, learn to save
The birthright which our FATHERS gave—
Laws equal, mild, and just, and pure,
Freedom from anarchy secure,
Firesides where heavenly bliss has flow'd,
And ALTARS consecrate to God.
Centum Vir.—Sometime since, that prodigy of learning Dr. Mitchill, wrote a letter, in Latin, to the king of Naples, begging his Majesty to make him a present of a book. This letter the Doctor subscribed with his name, and added the words, ‘Centum Vir.” One of his friends asked him the meaning of the title; the Doctor said it meant, that he was a member of Congress. This was before the late census, when the House of Representatives consisted of 105 members. How the Doctor should sign himself now there are more than 130, must be settled by himself.
| [Poems by Hopkins in] The Echo | |