The Anarchiad A New England Poem |
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| 4. | AMERICAN ANTIQUITIES.—No. IV.
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 | The Anarchiad |  |
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AMERICAN ANTIQUITIES.—No. IV.
EXTRACT FROM THE ANARCHIAD, BOOK XXIII.
Bow low, ye heavens, and all ye lands, draw near,
The voice prophetic of great Anarch hear!
From Eastern climes, by light and order driven,
To me, by fate, this Western world was giv'n;
My standard rear'd, the realm imperial rules,
The last asylum for my knaves and fools.
Here shall my best and brightest empire rise,
Wild riot reign, and discord greet the skies.
Awake, my chosen sons, in folly brave,
Stab Independence! dance o'er Freedom's grave!
Sing choral songs, while conq'ring mobs advance,
And blot the debts to Holland, Spain, and France—
Till ruin come, with fire, and sword, and blood,
And men shall ask where your republic stood.
The voice prophetic of great Anarch hear!
From Eastern climes, by light and order driven,
To me, by fate, this Western world was giv'n;
My standard rear'd, the realm imperial rules,
The last asylum for my knaves and fools.
Here shall my best and brightest empire rise,
Wild riot reign, and discord greet the skies.
Awake, my chosen sons, in folly brave,
Stab Independence! dance o'er Freedom's grave!
Sing choral songs, while conq'ring mobs advance,
And blot the debts to Holland, Spain, and France—
Till ruin come, with fire, and sword, and blood,
And men shall ask where your republic stood.
Thrice happy race! how blest are discord's heirs!
Blest while they know what anarchy is theirs;
Blest while they feel to them alone 'tis given
To know no sovereign, neither law nor Heaven.
From all mankind by traits peculiar known,
By frauds and lies distinguish'd for mine own,
Wonder of worlds! like whom, to mortal eyes,
None e'er have risen, and none e'er shall rise!
Blest while they know what anarchy is theirs;
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To know no sovereign, neither law nor Heaven.
From all mankind by traits peculiar known,
By frauds and lies distinguish'd for mine own,
Wonder of worlds! like whom, to mortal eyes,
None e'er have risen, and none e'er shall rise!
Lo, the poor Briton, who, corrupted, sold,
Sees God in courts, or hears him chink in gold:
Whose soul, proud empire oft has taught to stray
Far as the Western world, and gates of day;
Though plagu'd with debts, with rage of conquest curst,
In rags and tender-acts he puts no trust;
But in the public weal his own forgets,
Finds heaven for him who pays the nation's debts;
A heaven like London, his fond fancy makes,
Of nectar'd porter and ambrosial steaks.
Sees God in courts, or hears him chink in gold:
Whose soul, proud empire oft has taught to stray
Far as the Western world, and gates of day;
Though plagu'd with debts, with rage of conquest curst,
In rags and tender-acts he puts no trust;
But in the public weal his own forgets,
Finds heaven for him who pays the nation's debts;
A heaven like London, his fond fancy makes,
Of nectar'd porter and ambrosial steaks.
Not so, Columbia, shall thy sons be known
To prize the public weal above their own;
In faith and justice least, as last in birth,
Their race shall grow, a by-word through the earth.
Long skill'd to act the hypocritic part,
Grace on the brow, and knav'ry at the heart,
Perform their frauds with sanctimonious air,
Despise good works, and balance sins by pray'r—
Forswear the public debt, the public cause;
Cheat heaven with forms, and earth with tender-laws,
And leave the empire, at its latest groan,
To work salvation out by faith alone.
To prize the public weal above their own;
In faith and justice least, as last in birth,
Their race shall grow, a by-word through the earth.
Long skill'd to act the hypocritic part,
Grace on the brow, and knav'ry at the heart,
Perform their frauds with sanctimonious air,
Despise good works, and balance sins by pray'r—
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Cheat heaven with forms, and earth with tender-laws,
And leave the empire, at its latest groan,
To work salvation out by faith alone.
Behold the reign of anarchy, begun,
And half the business of confusion done.
From hell's dark caverns discord sounds alarms,
Blows her loud trump, and calls my Shays to arms,
O'er half the land the desperate riot runs,
And maddening mobs assume their rusty guns.
From councils feeble, bolder faction grows,
The daring corsairs, and the savage foes;
O'er Western wilds, the tawny bands allied,
Insult the States of weakness and of pride;
Once friendly realms, unpaid each generous loan,
Wait to divide and share them for their own.
And half the business of confusion done.
From hell's dark caverns discord sounds alarms,
Blows her loud trump, and calls my Shays to arms,
O'er half the land the desperate riot runs,
And maddening mobs assume their rusty guns.
From councils feeble, bolder faction grows,
The daring corsairs, and the savage foes;
O'er Western wilds, the tawny bands allied,
Insult the States of weakness and of pride;
Once friendly realms, unpaid each generous loan,
Wait to divide and share them for their own.
Now sinks the public mind; a death-like sleep
O'er all the torpid limbs begins to creep;
By dull degrees decays the vital heat,
The blood forgets to flow, the pulse to beat;
The powers of life, in mimic death withdrawn,
Closed the fixed eyes with one expiring yawn;
Exposed in state, to wait the funeral hour,
Lie the pale relics of departed power;
While conscience, harrowing up their souls, with dread,
Their ghost of empire stalks without a head.
O'er all the torpid limbs begins to creep;
By dull degrees decays the vital heat,
The blood forgets to flow, the pulse to beat;
The powers of life, in mimic death withdrawn,
Closed the fixed eyes with one expiring yawn;
Exposed in state, to wait the funeral hour,
Lie the pale relics of departed power;
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Their ghost of empire stalks without a head.
No more stands forth to check the rising feud,
Their great Defender of the public good;
Retired, in vain his sighs their fate deplore,
He hears, unmoved, the distant tempest roar;
No more to save a realm, dread Greene appears,
Their second hope, prime object of my fears;
Far in the south, from his pale body riven,
The deathful angel wings his soul to heaven.
Their great Defender of the public good;
Retired, in vain his sighs their fate deplore,
He hears, unmoved, the distant tempest roar;
No more to save a realm, dread Greene appears,
Their second hope, prime object of my fears;
Far in the south, from his pale body riven,
The deathful angel wings his soul to heaven.
Here shall I reign, unbounded and alone,
Nor men, nor demons, shake my baseless throne;
Till comes the day—but late, oh, may it spring—
When their tumultuous mobs shall ask a king;
A king, in wrath, shall heaven, vindictive send,
And my confusion and my empire end.
Nor men, nor demons, shake my baseless throne;
Till comes the day—but late, oh, may it spring—
When their tumultuous mobs shall ask a king;
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And my confusion and my empire end.
With arms, where bickering fires innumerous shine,
Like the torn surface of the midnight brine;
In sun-bright robes, that dazzled as he trod,
The stature, motion, armor of a god,
Great Hesper rose; the guardian of the clime—
O'er shadowy cliffs he stretch'd his arm sublime,
And check'd the Anarch old: “Malicious fiend,
Eternal curses on thy head descend!
Heaven's darling purpose can thy madness mar,
To glut thy eyes with ruin, death, and war!
I know thee, Anarch, in thy cheerless plight,
Thou eldest son of Erebus and Night!
Yes, bend on me thy brows of hideous scowl;
Roll thy wild eyeballs like the day-struck owl;
In Zion blow the trump, resound it far;
Fire the red beacons of intestine war;
The jealous breasts inflame; set hell at work,
And crown the labors of E---s B---e;
Yet, know for this, thyself to penance called,
Thy troops in terrors, their proud hearts appall'd,
E'en Shays, that moment when eternal night
Rolls dark'ning shadows o'er his closing sight,
Shall feel, 'twere better on a plank to lie,
Where surging billows kiss the angry sky;
'Twere better, through a furnace, fiery red,
With naked feet, on burning coals, to tread—
Than point his sword, with parricidious hand,
Against the bosom of his native land.
Like the torn surface of the midnight brine;
In sun-bright robes, that dazzled as he trod,
The stature, motion, armor of a god,
Great Hesper rose; the guardian of the clime—
O'er shadowy cliffs he stretch'd his arm sublime,
And check'd the Anarch old: “Malicious fiend,
Eternal curses on thy head descend!
Heaven's darling purpose can thy madness mar,
To glut thy eyes with ruin, death, and war!
I know thee, Anarch, in thy cheerless plight,
Thou eldest son of Erebus and Night!
Yes, bend on me thy brows of hideous scowl;
Roll thy wild eyeballs like the day-struck owl;
In Zion blow the trump, resound it far;
Fire the red beacons of intestine war;
The jealous breasts inflame; set hell at work,
And crown the labors of E---s B---e;
Yet, know for this, thyself to penance called,
Thy troops in terrors, their proud hearts appall'd,
E'en Shays, that moment when eternal night
Rolls dark'ning shadows o'er his closing sight,
Shall feel, 'twere better on a plank to lie,
Where surging billows kiss the angry sky;
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With naked feet, on burning coals, to tread—
Than point his sword, with parricidious hand,
Against the bosom of his native land.
“Where is the spirit of bold freedom fled?
Dead are my warriors; all my sages dead?
Is there, Columbia, bending o'er her grave,
No eye to pity, and no arm to save?
Dead are my warriors; all my sages dead?
Is there, Columbia, bending o'er her grave,
No eye to pity, and no arm to save?
“Sister of Freedom! heaven's imperial child!
Serenely stern, beneficently mild,
Blest Independence! rouse my sons to fame,
Inspire their bosoms with thy sacred flame!
Teach, ere too late, their blood-bought rights to prize,
Bid other Greenes and Washingtons arise!
Teach those who suffer'd for their country's good,
Who strove for freedom, and who toil'd in blood,
Once more, in arms, to make the glorious stand,
And bravely die, or save their natal land.
Serenely stern, beneficently mild,
Blest Independence! rouse my sons to fame,
Inspire their bosoms with thy sacred flame!
Teach, ere too late, their blood-bought rights to prize,
Bid other Greenes and Washingtons arise!
Teach those who suffer'd for their country's good,
Who strove for freedom, and who toil'd in blood,
Once more, in arms, to make the glorious stand,
And bravely die, or save their natal land.
“Yes, they shall rise, terrific in their rage,
And crush the factions of the faithless age;
Bid laws again exalt th'imperial scale,
And public justice o'er her foes prevail;
Restore the reign of order and of right,
And drive thee, howling, to the shades of night.”
And crush the factions of the faithless age;
Bid laws again exalt th'imperial scale,
And public justice o'er her foes prevail;
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And drive thee, howling, to the shades of night.”
They ended parley, and both for fight address'd,
On Anarch's helm a comet blaz'd his crest;
Infernal arms the shadowy demon steel'd,
And half the Andes form'd his ample shield;
Through parting clouds, high gleam'd his dreadful spear,
And shuddering earth proclaim'd the onset near;
Unmov'd, great Hesper drew th'immortal sword,
And rush'd, in vengeance,—
On Anarch's helm a comet blaz'd his crest;
Infernal arms the shadowy demon steel'd,
And half the Andes form'd his ample shield;
Through parting clouds, high gleam'd his dreadful spear,
And shuddering earth proclaim'd the onset near;
Unmov'd, great Hesper drew th'immortal sword,
And rush'd, in vengeance,—
—The society of critics and antiquarians cannot sufficiently express their regrets, upon finding the sequel of this description so much defaced that they are not able to decide the issue of this astonishing conflict. The fragments still legible are truly sublime. And we have reason to conjecture that the combat ended with some disadvantage to the old Anarch.
Major-General Nathaniel Greene, an officer who, by common consent, is ranked only second to Washington, among our revolutionary heroes. He greatly distinguished himself at the battles of Trenton, and of Princeton. With these words on his lips, “I will recover South Carolina, or die in the attempt!” Greene went forth to engage the forces of Cornwalls at Eutaw Springs; in which conflict the American army was successful, and the power of George III, in South Carolina, was broken, and Cornwallis was soon after compelled to surrender. At the close of the war, Greene took up his residence on a beautiful plantation, a few miles from Savannah, presented him by the State of Georgia. But the period of his repose and domestic enjoyment was brief. On the twelfth of June, 1786, he was attacked by inflammation of the brain, and died on the nineteenth of the same month, in the forty-fourth year of his age.
| The Anarchiad | |