 | The Poems of St. George Tucker of Williamsburg, Virginia 1752-1827 |  |
97
Ode IX
To Liberty
Jonathan addresseth his castoff mistress—pretendeth to have forgotten her name—revileth her groveling taste, furious temper and contempt for her betters—commandeth her not to disturb the peace, and driveth her beyond the Atlantic: but at parting seemeth half willing to be reconciled to her again.
In vitium Libertas excidit------
Hor.
Hor.
Et Tuba terribilem Sonnitu Tarrantantara dixit------.
Virg.
Virg.
O Thou! whatever be thy doubtful name,
Once dear to us, and still to Gallia dear,
Whose boisterous accents, fill the trump of Fame,
Accents which we have grown too deaf to hear:
Once dear to us, and still to Gallia dear,
Whose boisterous accents, fill the trump of Fame,
Accents which we have grown too deaf to hear:
Who didst, erewhile, in Congress Hall preside,
Each vote dictating to prevent mistakes,
Though now thine image there be thrown aside,
Doomed to oblivion in a filthy jakes:
Each vote dictating to prevent mistakes,
Though now thine image there be thrown aside,
Doomed to oblivion in a filthy jakes:
Who didst in many a well-fought battle wave
Thy bloodstained banners o'er our fainting heads,
And from the jaws of death and ruin save
Full many a wight, that now thy presence dreads:
Thy bloodstained banners o'er our fainting heads,
And from the jaws of death and ruin save
Full many a wight, that now thy presence dreads:
Who, when the din of war no more was heard,
Didst to the humble cottage straight retire,
And to imperial palaces preferred
Bar independence round a rural fire:
Didst to the humble cottage straight retire,
And to imperial palaces preferred
Bar independence round a rural fire:
98
Who, when thou'rt wooed, art as a virgin mild,
Thine angel-visage all bedecked with smiles;
But when opposed, like a hyena wild
Thy savage fangs!—whose rage no art beguiles;
Thine angel-visage all bedecked with smiles;
But when opposed, like a hyena wild
Thy savage fangs!—whose rage no art beguiles;
Who dost like death on all conditions look,
Nor spar'st a Stuart's or a Capet's head;
Nor fear'st this earth must some convulsion brook
For them; as if Tom Thumb the Great were dead;
Nor spar'st a Stuart's or a Capet's head;
Nor fear'st this earth must some convulsion brook
For them; as if Tom Thumb the Great were dead;
Who at one stroke, hast thousands beggars made,
Of those whose Fortune's minions were before,
And left them, without wealth, or worth, or trade,
To starve—as they had millions starved before:
Of those whose Fortune's minions were before,
And left them, without wealth, or worth, or trade,
To starve—as they had millions starved before:
Who carest no more for coronets, or crowns,
Or any modern would-be lordling cit,
Alike condemning both their smiles and frowns,
Than if our Daddy-Vice had never writ—
Or any modern would-be lordling cit,
Alike condemning both their smiles and frowns,
Than if our Daddy-Vice had never writ—
Avaunt!—Nor let thy clarion grate our ears
With sounds, terrific as the final trump!
Sounds which once turned our pruning hooks to spears,
And from their scabbards caused our swords to jump:
With sounds, terrific as the final trump!
Sounds which once turned our pruning hooks to spears,
And from their scabbards caused our swords to jump:
Sounds! that should Congress listen, might appall
The stoutest champion there for right divine;
Recall thine image back to Federal Hall,
And to thy temple turn corruption's shrine:
The stoutest champion there for right divine;
Recall thine image back to Federal Hall,
And to thy temple turn corruption's shrine:
Sounds! that might even tempt them to reward
The care-worn soldier's fears and wounds and woes,
Though S---h and A---s should think the measure hard,
And speculators turn from friends to foes:
The care-worn soldier's fears and wounds and woes,
Though S---h and A---s should think the measure hard,
And speculators turn from friends to foes:
99
Sounds! that perchance might e'en the Senate wake
From dreams of rank and titles, power and wealth;
Or bank director's gilded slumbers break,
And bring the Constitution back to health:
From dreams of rank and titles, power and wealth;
Or bank director's gilded slumbers break,
And bring the Constitution back to health:
Sounds! that perchance might to the states recall
Some faint remembrance of lose sovereign rights,
Those rights, which mighty Atlas doomed to fall,
And which stern Minos banished from their sights:
Some faint remembrance of lose sovereign rights,
Those rights, which mighty Atlas doomed to fall,
And which stern Minos banished from their sights:
Sounds! that might peradventure drive away
The faithful Britons from our western posts;
Those sentinels, who guard us night and day,
Our scalps defending from the Indian hosts:
The faithful Britons from our western posts;
Those sentinels, who guard us night and day,
Our scalps defending from the Indian hosts:
Sounds! that perchance might prompt a silent wish
To aid their struggles, who once aided ours;
Nor, whilst thy cause is fighting, mute as fish
Behold the ambition of combining powers:
To aid their struggles, who once aided ours;
Nor, whilst thy cause is fighting, mute as fish
Behold the ambition of combining powers:
To France return!!! There shall thy brazen lungs
Yield music, sweeter than the Syren's voice,
Though louder far than Fame's twice fifty tongues,
And unborn millions at the sound rejoice.
Yield music, sweeter than the Syren's voice,
Though louder far than Fame's twice fifty tongues,
And unborn millions at the sound rejoice.
100
There, wave thy banners!—there thy falchion wield!
There, lead to victory each gallant son!
There, let thy slaughtered foes bestrew the field!
Nor let e'en tyrants, there, thy vengeance shun!
There, lead to victory each gallant son!
There, let thy slaughtered foes bestrew the field!
Nor let e'en tyrants, there, thy vengeance shun!
Nay—though imperial crowns, and heads should fall,
Nor age, nor sex protect thy fiend-like foes,
Rather than thou should'st quit this earthly ball,
E'en Jonathan shall cry—God speed thy blows!!!
Nor age, nor sex protect thy fiend-like foes,
Rather than thou should'st quit this earthly ball,
E'en Jonathan shall cry—God speed thy blows!!!
Aug. 14, 1793
| The Poems of St. George Tucker of Williamsburg, Virginia 1752-1827 | |