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

Like as Lybia's burning sand,
Or the parch'd Arabian plain,
Which gentle Eurus never fann'd,
Would drink the unfathomable main—
So is the wretch who endless craves,
And restless pines in every state—
O! place him with the worst of slaves,
Whether in high or low estate;
Heap him around with massy wealth,
High-throne him on the seat of power;
Each generous joy he'll use by stealth,
While want shall prey on every hour;
Let glittering pomp allure his soul,
Or nobler fame his mind dilate;
Through complicated plagues he'll roll,
And dire vexations still create.
The first-born mortal upon earth,
When round him smiling nature play'd,
With discontent was void of mirth,
Though he o'er every creature sway'd.

He who contented spends his days—
Calm as the clear unruffled stream,
His life in gentle current strays,
Mild as the maiden's silver dream—
Be he born to till the field,
Or in war the sword to wield;
If he o'er the midnight oil
Wastes his life in learned toil,
Studious to instruct mankind
Where true happiness to find;
Or if o'er the lawless main
He roams in search of sordid gain;
Or sorts with nobles in proud ease,
Or humble swains in cottages;
Be he with content but blest—
He 's the happy man confest!

Listen, dear Strephon, to my song—
O herd not with ambitious slaves,
Nor join thou with the vulgar throng—
Their joys unstable as the waves.
Strephon, thrice blest with fruitful plains,
The lover of a sapient theme;
Strephon, whose sweetly soothing strains

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Flow gently as thy native stream—
O leave the ruthless scenes of war,
Unfit art thou for rude alarms,
Beside thy gentle Delaware,
Come, Strephon, seek more pleasing charms.
Here, while o'er the fertile valleys
Thou shalt tuneful stray along,
I will make repeated sallies,
To catch the transport of thy song;
Then mutual joy shall swell our soul,
Attendant to bright wisdom's strain,
While we shall quaff the friendly bowl,
Far from the noisy and the vain.

ODE ON THE PROSPECT OF PEACE. 1761.

When elemental conflicts rage,
And heaven is wrapp'd in tempests dire,
When storms with storms dread combat wage,
And thunders roll etherial fire;—
Returning zephyr's odorous race,
And radiant Sol's all-cheering face,
The trembling mortals most desire.

When Eurus, charged with livid clouds,
Scours o'er old ocean's wild domain,
And Boreas rends the vessel's shrouds,
And o'er her swells the raging main;
If lighter breezes should succeed,
And Iris sweet, of varied hue,
Lift o'er the main her beamy head,
What raptures fill the marine crew!
Thus, when Bellona (ruthless maid!)
Her empire through the world has spread,
And death his flag has proud display'd
O'er legions that in battle bled;—
If peace, bedeck'd with olive robe,
(Resplendent nymph, sweet guest of heaven)
Transfuse her balm around the globe,
A theme of joy to man is given.
Then wake, O muse! thy sweetest lays—
Returning peace demands thy praise;
And while the notes in varied cadence sound,
Eye thou the Theban swan that soars o'er heav'nly ground.

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If thou from Albion's sea-girt shore,
Advent'rous muse, wilt deign to rove,
Inclined remotest realms to explore
And soothe the savage soul to love;
Hither wave thy wandering pinion,
Here be fix'd thy last dominion.
Warbling in 'Sylvania's grove,
Bright-eyed Euphrosyne! attend.
If genial peace can aught avail,
With all thy graceful charms descend,
And o'er the youthful lyre prevail.
Bounteous peace with lavish hand,
To every shore thy blessings strew,
O veil the blood-polluted land,
And all thy grateful joys renew.
Thy blissful pregnant reign restore,
And calm the breasts of angry kings;
Thy horn of Amalthean store
Ope, and expand thy golden wings;
Till trade secure her treasure beams,
And science reassumes her shades;
Till shepherds quaff untainted streams,
And hinds enjoy their native glades;
Till the glad muses strike the lyre,
And virtuous social deeds inspire;
Till the loud drum no more shall bid to arms prepare,
Nor brazen trumpets breathe the horrid din of war.

Auspicious power, whose salutary ray
Form'd this new world, and rear'd her infant fame,
Extend anew thy mitigating sway,
And quell the hero's battle-breathing flame.
Ye fragrant myrtles, ope your peaceful bowers,
And charm the warrior with your pleasing scenes,
Shield him with woodbine's aromatic flowers,
And for his sopha spread your velvet greens.
For him the flute mellifluous shall blow
In Lydian music, sounding soft and low,
And blooming beauty, with attractive art,
Shall sweetly melt the tumults of his heart;
The nectar'd bowl, with rosy garlands twined,
Shall waft his sorrows to the vagrant wind,
While the victorious laurel of renown,
In verdant wreaths his manly brows shall crown.

Too long has war's terrific train,
(The barbed spear and reeking blade)

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Made nations rue their chieftains slain,
And sanguined every muse's shade.
From distant Volga's rapid floods,
To Canada's high towering woods,
Has the deadly cannon bray'd.
From whence the effulgent god of day
Impearls Arabia's spicy fields,
To where his setting lustres play—
The world to British valor yields.
How has bold Clive, with martial toil,
O'er India borne his conquering lance,
For Brunswick gain'd the distant soil,
And dash'd th' aspiring hopes of France?
Let Goree, rich with flaming ore,
Heroic Keppel's acts proclaim,
And Senegal's Eburnean shore
Resound to future times his name.
O'er red Germania's hostile waste,
Britannia's chiefs have conquering shone.
Brave Elliot's warlike fates have graced
His monarch's high illustrious throne;
And Granby's deeds the muses claim
To swell the immortal trump of fame.
But victory enough has waved her glittering wand,
With British honors graced, o'er every prostrate land!

Witness, ye plains bedew'd with gore,
So late ambitious Gallia's boast,
Where howling o'er the desert shore,
Was seen the genius of the coast.
Thus, leaning on her shatter'd spear,
She wildly wail'd in deep despair,
Her fallen towers and vanquish'd host—
“As Niobe (when Juno's hate
Pursued to death her tender care)
I moan my offspring's hopeless fate,
And vex with sighs the passing air.
Not with less grief my bosom heaves,
Than did the breast of Hector's sire,
When slain were all his Dardan chiefs,
And Ilium blazed with Grecian fire.
For lo! where heap'd with slaughter'd Gauls,
Is Louisbourg a ruin'd pile!
Her bulwarks and stupendous walls
Are whelm'd in dust and ashes vile.
Imperial Lawrence heaves with woe,

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Of many a Gallic chief the grave,
And as his purple billows flow
To hoary Neptune's coral cave,
Tells how my vaunting troops, o'erthrown,
Britannia's matchless prowess own;
Tells how Quebec, so late for martial might renown'd,
Her rocky ramparts crush'd, lies smoking on the ground.

“What force can Albion's warlike sons dismay,
Dauntless who mingle in the embattled plain?
What toils dishearten, or what dangers stay?
Not rocks, nor deserts, nor the boisterous main!
How torn my laurels, by her Wolfe's dread arm!
O'er mountains huge, who chased my armed band,
Roused the fierce savage with dire war's alarm,
And hurl'd his thunder o'er my carnaged land!
No more gay trophies shall emblaze my name,
Nor Gallia's realms re-echo with my fame.
Lost are those honors which my heroes gain'd,
With blood my temples and my domes are stain'd;
But men directed by a heavenly hand,
'Tis vain, 'tis mad, 'tis impious to withstand.”—
She spoke, and mounting from a lofty height,
Westward she wing'd her solitary flight.

Thus has Britannia's glory beam'd,
Where'er bright Phœbus, from his car,
To earth his cheerful rays hath stream'd,
Adown the crystal vault-of air.
Enough o'er Britain's shining arms,
Hath victory display'd her charms,
Amid the horrid pomp of war—
Descend then, Peace, angelic maid,
And smooth Bellona's haggard brow;
Haste to diffuse thy healing aid,
Where'er implored by scenes of woe.
Henceforth, whoe'er disturbs thy reign,
Or stains the world with human gore,
Be they from earth (a gloomy train!)
Banish'd to hell's profoundest shore;
Where vengeance, on Avernus' lake,
Rages, with furious Até bound;
And black rebellion's fetters shake,
And discord's hideous murmurs sound;

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Where envy's noxious snakes entwine
Her temples round, in gorgon mood,
And bellowing faction rolls supine
Along the flame-becurled flood!—
Hence, then, to that accursed place,
Disturbers of the human race!
And with you bear ambition wild, and selfish pride,
With persecution foul, and terror by her side.

Thus driven from earth war's horrid train—
O Peace, thou nymph divine, draw near!
Here let the muses fix their reign,
And crown with fame each rolling year.
Source of joy and genuine pleasure,
Queen of quiet, queen of leisure,
Haste thy votaries to cheer!
Cherish'd beneath thy hallow'd rule,
Shall Pennsylvania's glory rise;
Her sons, bred up in Virtue's school,
Shall lift her honors to the skies—
A state thrice blest with lenient sway,
Where liberty exalts the mind;
Where plenty basks the live long day,
And pours her treasures unconfined.
Hither, ye beauteous virgins tend,
With Arts and Science by your side,
Whose skill the untutor'd morals mend,
And to fair honor mankind guide;
And with you bring the graces three,
To fill the soul with glory's blaze;
Whose charms give charms to poesy,
And consecrate the immortal lays—
Such as, when mighty Pindar sung,
Through the Alphean village rung;
Or such as, Meles, by thy lucid fountains flow'd,
When bold Mæonides with heavenly transports glow'd.

To such, may Delaware, majestic flood,
Lend, from his flowery banks, a ravish'd ear;
Such note as may delight the wise and good,
Or saints celestial may endure to hear!
For if the muse can aught of time descry,
Such notes shall sound thy crystal waves along,
Thy cities fair with glorious Athens vie,
Nor pure Ilissus boast a nobler song.
On thy fair banks, a fane to Virtue's name
Shall rise—and justice light her holy flame.

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All hail then, Peace! restore the golden days,
And round the ball diffuse Britannia's praise;
Stretch her wide empire to the world's last end,
Till kings remotest to her sceptre bend!

ODE TO MY INGENIOUS FRIEND, MR THOMAS GODFREY.

While you, dear Tom, are forced to roam,
In search of fortune, far from home,
O'er bogs, e'er seas and mountains;
I too, debarr'd the soft retreat
Of shady groves, and murmur sweet
Of silver prattling fountains,

Must mingle with the bustling throng,
And bear my load of cares along,
Like any other sinner:
For, where 's the ecstasy in this,
To loiter in poetic bliss,
And go without a dinner?

Flaccus, we know, immortal bard!
With mighty kings and statesmen fared,
And lived in cheerful plenty:
But now, in these degenerate days,
The slight reward of empty praise,
Scarce one receives in twenty.

Well might the Roman swan, along
The pleasing Tiber pour his song,
When bless'd with ease and quiet;
Oft did he grace Mæcenas' board,
Who would for him throw by the lord,
And in Falernian riot.

But, dearest Tom! these days are past,
And we are in a climate cast
Where few the muse can relish;
Where all the doctrine now that's told,
Is that a shining heap of gold
Alone can man embellish.

Then since 't is thus, my honest friend,
If you be wise, my strain attend,

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And counsel sage adhere to;
With me, henceforward, join the crowd,
And like the rest proclaim aloud,
That money is all virtue!

Then may we both, in time, retreat
To some fair villa, sweetly neat,
To entertain the muses;
And then life's noise and trouble leave—
Supremely blest, we'll never grieve
At what the world refuses.

HYMN TO MAY.

Now had the beam of Titan gay
Usher'd in the blissful May,
Scattering from his pearly bed,
Fresh dew on every mountain's head;
Nature mild and debonair,
To thee, fair maid, yields up her care.
May, with gentle plastic hand,
Clothes in flowery robe the land;
O'er the vales the cowslips spreads,
And eglantine beneath the shades;
Violets blue befringe each fountain,
Woodbines lace each steepy mountain;
Hyacinths their sweets diffuse,
And the rose its blush renews;
With the rest of Flora's train,
Decking lowly dale or plain.

Through creation's range, sweet May!
Nature's children own thy sway—
Whether in the crystal flood,
Amorous, sport the finny brood;
Or the feather'd tribes declare,
That they breathe thy genial air,
While they warble in each grove
Sweetest notes of artless love;
Or their wound the beasts proclaim,
Smitten with a fiercer flame;
Or the passions higher rise,
Sparing none beneath the skies,
But swaying soft the human mind
With feelings of ecstatic kind—

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Through wide creation's range, sweet May!
All nature's children own thy sway.

Oft will I, (e'er Phosphor's light
Quits the glimmering skirts of night)
Meet thee in the clover field,
Where thy beauties thou shalt yield
To my fancy, quick and warm,
Listening to the dawn's alarm,
Sounded loud by Chanticleer,
In peals that sharply pierce the ear.
And, as Sol his flaming car
Urges up the vaulted air,
Shunning quick the scorching ray,
I will to some covert stray,
Coolly bowers or latent dells,
Where light-footed silence dwells,
And whispers to my heaven-born dream,
Fair Schuylkill, by thy winding stream!
There I'll devote full many an hour,
To the still-finger'd Morphean power,
And entertain my thirsty soul
With draughts from Fancy's fairy bowl;
Or mount her orb of varied hue,
And scenes of heaven and earth review.

Nor in milder eve's decline,
As the sun forgets to shine,
And sloping down the ethereal plain,
Plunges in the western main,
Will I forbear due strain to pay
To the song-inspiring May;
But as Hesper 'gins to move
Round the radiant court of Jove,
(Leading through the azure sky
All the starry progeny,
Emitting prone their silver light,
To re-illume the shades of night)
Then, the dewy lawn along,
I'll carol forth my grateful song,
Viewing with transported eye
The blazing orbs that roll on high,
Beaming lustre, bright and clear,
O'er the glowing hemisphere.
Thus from the early blushing morn,
Till the dappled eve's return,
Will I, in free unlabor'd lay,
Sweetly sing the charming May!

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VERSES FOR THE NEW YEAR, 1762.

Still as emerges from the womb of time,
Each circling year, you claim our humble rhyme;
But where 's the muse, whose fiery numbers best
Shall rouse heroic ardor in each breast?
To wing the flight where conquest leads the way,
Transcends our song, and mocks the feeble lay.
Such themes sublime best suit a rapturous lyre,
And bards transported with poetic fire—
Yet when inspired with Britain's glorious fame,
What bosom glows not with the hallow'd flame?

When angry Gallia pour'd her hostile train,
Intent on plunder, o'er th' Atlantic main;
Strangers to arms, we knew no murderous art,
Nor crimson falchion, nor the poisonous dart,
From earliest youth, instructed to abhor
The deadly engines of destructive war;
The cannon's sound, as dire assail'd our ears,
As Jove's red thunder, when he shakes the spheres.

Yet to our aid when mighty Brunswick came,
It kindled in each breast the martial flame;
Undaunted as our warlike troops advance,
To walls, inglorious, shrink the sons of France;
Their cities storm'd, their chiefs in fetters bound,
And their proud ramparts levell'd with the ground.

O'er this new world, thus have Britannia's arms
Restored lost peace, and exiled war's alarms;
Again rich commerce crowns the merchant's toil,
And smiling Ceres paints the pregnant soil.
Thus the good shepherd, when he views from far
The deadly wolves beset his fleecy care,
Quick to their help his guardian crook he wields,
And soon the prowling throng is scatter'd o'er the fields.
Yet not to us is Britain's care confined,
Her fame is wafted to remotest Ind;
By justice call'd, her chiefs, with matchless swords,
Have humbled mighty Asia's proudest lords;
Far distant scenes her martial deeds of proclaim,
And Pondicherry bows to Britain's name.

See the sad chance of all destructive war—
See Lally captived at the victor's car;

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Lally, whose soul the maddening furies claim,
And cursed with longings for the voice of fame.
So when a tyger, flush'd with reeking blood,
Ramps o'er the plains, and tears the leafy wood,
A lion spies him from his secret cave,
Bursts from his stand, to seize the insulting slave;
Then hunts him, generous, from the neighboring fields,
And peace and safety to the forest yields.

O'er Europe too, great George's arms prevail,
And on its seas his fleets triumphant sail;
Witness Belleisle, around whose wave-worn shore
His navies ride, and his loud cannons roar.
Oh! could we boast the seeds of epic song,
Immortal Frederick should the verse prolong;
The chief should shine, inclosed with fields of dead,
And guardian angels hovering round his head.
There, in dread chains the barbarous Russ should bow,
And here, submissive, kneel the Hungarian foe;
There should be seen to bend, the sons of Gaul,
Here lesser troops, his enemies, should fall.
Thus firm a rock, begirt with raging waves,
Stands the fierce charge, though all the tempest raves;
Now round his summit dash the broken tides,
And vainly beat his adamantine sides!
But these we leave to deck the historic page,
And wake the wonder of a future age.

Now let our muse the Paphian trumpet blow,
Beauty 's the theme, and melting strains shall flow.
See Neptune, mounting with his nereid train,
To smooth the surface of the azure main;
As conscious of his charge, he joys to please
The beauteous Charlotte, mistress of the seas!
The jovial sailors ply their shining oars,
And now they reach fair Albion's white-cliff shores;
With warbling flutes, and hautboy's pleasing sound,
They spread sweet music's silver notes around.
On Cydnus' stream, so once array'd was seen
Fair Cleopatra, Egypt's beauteous queen.

But here we fix, rejoiced to see you bless'd,
And Britain's glory in each clime confess'd!

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ELEGY TO THE MEMORY OF MR THOMAS GODFREY.

O death! thou victor of the human frame!
The soul's poor fabric trembles at thy name!
How long shall man be urged to dread thy sway,
For those whom thou untimely tak'st away?
Life's blooming spring just opens to our eyes,
And strikes the senses with a sweet surprise,
When thy fierce arm uplifts the fatal blow
That hurls us breathless to the earth below.

Sudden, as darts the lightning through the sky,
Around the globe thy various weapons fly.
Here war's red engines heap the field with slain,
And pallid sickness there extends thy reign;
Here the soft virgin weeps her lover dead,
There maiden beauty sinks the graceful head;
Here infants grieve their parents are no more,
There reverend sires their children's deaths deplore;
Here the sad friend—O! save the sacred name,
Yields half his soul to thy relentless claim;
O pardon, pardon the descending tear!
Friendship commands, and not the muses, here.
O say, thou much loved, dear departed shade,
To what celestial region hast thou stray'd?
Where is that vein of thought, that noble fire,
Which fed thy soul, and bade the world admire?
That manly strife with fortune to be just,
That love of praise? an honorable thirst!
The soul, alas! has fled to endless day,
And left its house a mouldering mass of clay.

There, where no fears invade, nor ills molest,
Thy soul shall dwell immortal with the blest;
In that bright realm, where dearest friends no more
Shall from each other's throbbing breasts be tore,
Where all those glorious spirits sit enshrined,
The just, the good, the virtuous of mankind.
There shall fair angels in a radiant ring,
And the great Son of heaven's eternal King,
Proclaim thee welcome to the blissful skies,
And wipe the tears for ever from thine eyes.

How did we hope—alas! the hope how vain!
To hear thy future more enripen'd strain;
When fancy's fire with judgment had combined
To guide each effort of the enraptured mind.

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Yet are those youthful glowing lays of thine
The emanations of a soul divine;
Who heard thee sing, but felt sweet music's dart
In thrilling transports pierce his captive heart?
Whether soft melting airs attuned thy song,
Or pleased to pour the thundering verse along,
Still nobly great, true offspring of the Nine,
Alas! how blasted in thy glorious prime!
So when first ope the eyelids of the morn,
A radiant purple does the heavens adorn,
Fresh smiling glory streaks the skies around,
And gaily silvers each enamel'd mound,
Till some black storm o'erclouds the ether fair,
And all its beauties vanish into air.

Stranger, whoe'er thou art, by fortune's hand
Toss'd on the baleful Carolinian strand,
Oh! if thou seest perchance the poet's grave,
The sacred spot with tears of sorrow lave;
Oh! shade it, shade it with ne'er fading bays.
Hallow'd 's the place where gentle Godfrey lays.
(So may no sudden dart from death's dread bow,
Far from the friends thou lov'st, e'er lay thee low,)
There may the weeping morn its tribute bring,
And angels shield it with their golden wing,
Till the last trump shall burst the womb of night,
And the purged atoms to their soul unite!