University of Virginia Library

A POEM ON THE LOVE OF COUNTRY. IN CELEBRATION OF THE TWENTY-THIRD ANNIVERSARY OF THE INDEPENDENCE OF THE UNITED STATES OF AMERICA.

TO HIS MAJESTY LOUIS, KING OF ETRURIA, HEREDITARY PRINCE OF PARMA, INFANT OF SPAIN, &c. &c. &c.

SIRE,

I avail myself of the opportunity of a ship sailing from New-York for Leghorn, to transmit my thanks for the flattering manner in which your Majesty has communicated to me, in your letter, dated at Florence, the 15th of February last, how much you should be gratified by receiving the dedication of my poem “on the Love of Country.” For presenting that work on a subject, by which all nations are affected, although as here treated, it is particularly applicable to my countrymen, I did not apologize. Sentiments of true policy, and principles of pure morality, ought to be equally acceptable in all regions of the earth, and with all descriptions of its inhabitants. Or if any difference is to be allowed, I will be bold to assert, such sentiments and principles claim the peculiar protection of well informed and beneficent potentates, because peculiarly great are their faculties for doing good, and extensive their spheres of action.

Your modesty, Sire, must permit me to say, that your patronage of those fine arts and elegant letters which have rendered the names of the former chief magistrates at Florence for ever famous, would afford the most ample theme for eulogium on this occasion; and the interest which your Majesty so kindly takes in my welfare, removed, as I am, at such an immense distance from your royal residence, could not fail to furnish increasing motives for indulging my inclination to celebrate the splendid and amiable qualities which so eminently unite in your character as a monarch and a man. But a fear of trespassing on the more precious distribution of your time, confines me simply to professing my sensibility of your favours, and offering my prayers for the felicity of your august person and family. May yours and theirs be the continued blessings of that Being “by whom kings reign and princes decree justice!”

While I thus make an effort to convey the proofs of my grateful feelings, by a vehicle so frail as this paper, across the vast Atlantic Ocean, from the lately obscure nursery of infant improvements in the new world, to the long celebrated cradle of reviving literature in the old, deign, oh King! to accept them as the pledges of the perfect respect, entire devotion, and, if I might be permitted a reciprocal expression, “the sentiments of sincere attachment,” with which

Ayant eu le plaisir de recevoir vôtre lettre de congé de Madrid du 15 de Janvier, je profite de cette occasion, pour vous en temoigner ma reconnaissance, ainsi que celle de ma femme, qui m' en charge avec bien de l'exactitude. Les félicitations que vous nous offréz sur les heureux événements qui nous ont signalé l'anneé derniere, ne peuvent pas certainement manquer de nous étre vraiment agréables; et bien surs que vous vœux seront toujours les mêmes pour nous, et que vous ne nous oublieréz jamais.

Vous connaisséz trop mon attachement pour toutes les productions litteraires, pour ne pas voir quel plaisir j'aurai à accepter la dedication de vôtre poême sur l'amour de la Pàtrie; je vous prie donc de vouloir bien me faire ce plaisir, et ne jamais douter de la sincere reconnaissance que je vous en conserverai.

Je vous desire en Amerique tous les bonheurs, et félicitès possibles, et que vous puissiéz souhaiter; et je vous prie aussi de dire bien de choses à vôtre femme, de ma part. J'espere que cette lettre vous trouverà déjà en Amerique, et que vous auréz déjà fini le voyage de mer, qui ne laisse pas d'être long, et dangereux. Malgré célà, ce serait une bien grande satisfaction pour moi, si je pouvais un jour, voir ces beaux pays de l'Amerique, mais je crains bien de n'avoir jamais ce plaisir. En attendant je vous prie de me conserver toujours vôtre amitié et attachement; n'oubliéz jamais mon pauvre cabinet d'histoire naturelle, quand la nature offrira quelque chose de particulier; et soyéz bien persuadé des sentiments de vrai, et sincere attachement avec lequel je suis, et serai toujours,

TRANSLATION.

Having had the pleasure to receive your farewell letter from Madrid, of the 15th of January, I profit of this occasion

to testify my gratitude, as well as that of my wife, who gives me very particularly that commission. The congratulations which you offer us on the happy events which have marked for us the last year, cannot certainly fail to be truly agreeable, being sure that your good wishes will always be the same for us, and that you will never forget us.

You know too well my fondness for all literary productions, not to perceive what pleasure I shall have in accepting the Dedication of your poem on the Love of Country: I pray you then to be pleased to afford me that gratification, and never to doubt the sincere thankfulness which I shall always preserve.

I desire for you in America all the prosperities and felicities possible, and which you can wish; and I entreat you to say a great many things to your wife on my part. I hope this letter will find you in America, and that you will already have finished the sea-voyage, which cannot but be long and dangerous. Notwithstanding that, it would be a great satisfaction if I could, one day, see those fine regions of America; but I fear much I shall never have that pleasure. In the mean time I pray you to retain for me for ever your friendship and attachment; never forget my poor cabinet of natural history when nature shall present any thing extraordinary; and be fully persuaded of the sentiments of true and sincere attachment, with which I am, and shall ever be,

ORIGINAL PREFACE On the first Publication of the two following Poems, which were written when the Author was Minister in Spain.

Should more defects or imperfections of style be discerned, in such poems of this collection as have never before been printed, than were expected, the writer may be permitted to allege his long absence from his country in mitigation of the severity of animadversion. Since the summer after our revolutionary war was ended (the time of his first leaving this land of his nativity) he has remained abroad, with some intermissions, nearly fourteen years. During the greater part of that period, and particularly for more than eleven of the last years, he has heard very little of his native language spoken, either in his own family, or the societies which he frequented. Almost the whole of his longest productions in verse were composed in Europe. The poems “on the Happiness of America,” and “the Future Glory of the United States,” were written principally in Paris and London; that “on our Industry” in Lisbon; and those “on the Love of Country,” and “the Death of General Washington,” in Madrid.

In conformity to the plan which has been prosecuted in the preceding sheets, it is hoped that the systematic intention of suggesting means for securing the blessings of our revolution, and enlarging the limits of our felicity, will be discovered in the two subsequent poems; the one containing a dissertation on, and the other an exemplification of, real Patriotism.

While the author resided in Spain, in the course of the late European war, he was too incessantly engaged in protecting or reclaiming the ships and cargoes of his fellow citizens concerned in navigation and commerce, to have much leisure for belles lettres.

Few fields can be more thorny than that of remonstrance and reclamation. There the seeds of genius could little more than vegetate. Even plants transferred from the most fertile seminaries could find nothing congenial to foster their growth. No blossoms of wit could flourish amidst the sterility of official notes. In effect, the dryness of the diplomatic soil, absorbing the nutrition from the flowers of imagination, might well be supposed unfavourable to poetical productions. The interruption of intercourse with other countries prevented emulation from being excited by new publications and learned travellers. The pursuit of elegant literature was thus interrupted. Yet some species of relaxation from business was necessary. Notwithstanding these discouragements, poetry appeared the most eligible to the writer. He indulged feeling possibly more than he consulted discretion. But if he wrote rather carelessly to please himself in the first instance, when he contemplated consigning his writings to the press, he would not treat his readers with so little consideration as not to attempt to gratify them, by giving his performances all the correctness in his power. It is not meant to be insinuated that the literary appetite has been so pampered, as to become depraved or fastidious. But at a time when, in the British dominions and the United States, every poet who aspires to celebrity, strives to approach the perfection of Pope in the sweetness of his versification, it is conceived the public taste is too much accustomed to be regaled with such delicacies, to relish any poetical entertainment which is totally destitute of them. How far the choice and arrangement of materials for the entertainment now provided, be indicative of true or false taste, must be left to that of critics to determine.

Whether a poet composes from enthusiasm or with meditation, the art of animating and keeping alive the curiosity of his readers is certainly least of all to be neglected. Nothing can compensate for the want, for without it his works will not be read. To create an interest, is to command attention. To make descriptions or reflections not merely entertaining, but even intelligible, perspicuity is indispensably requisite. But without distinct perceptions, clear ideas could not exist for communication. We cannot give to others that which we have not ourselves. Without luminous comprehension, and lucid order, what can be expected but obscurity and confusion? Without spirit and intelligence, what but apathy and tediousness? He who feels not his subject strongly, can never rouse the sensibility of his readers. The writer has endeavoured to prevent his mental images, whatever they were, from being distorted by abstract phraseology, or disguised

by foreign idiom. In attempting to make the clearness of his style in a degree the mirror of his mind, he was solicitous to shun turgid diction, brilliant antithesis, unnatural conceits, affected figures, forced epithets, and, in general, all factitious ornament. Nor was he less anxious to avoid mistaking and admitting vulgarity for simplicity. He wished not to degrade the wonderful and glorious, though ordinary and regular displays of Creation and Providence, in the natural and moral world, by handling the subjects with too much familiarity. He believed that the use of the most proper words, in their proper places, without the intervention of the undefinable mens divinior, could not constitute the higher species of poesy. Pleased with the charms of novelty, and delighted with whatever is elevated, beautiful, elegant, lovely, and excellent in the works of the ancients and moderns, he should be happy to be found, in his own, to have aimed at originality without rashness, and imitation without servility.

The same diffidence of the writer in hazarding an opinion on his own productions, and confidence in the candour of his readers, which induce him to offer his hitherto unpublished poems with these remarks and explanations, preclude him from presuming to anticipate their judgment. An avowal of his objects and motives, as developed in the history of his compositions, will, perhaps, serve to diminish the rigour and annihilate the asperity of criticism.

ADVERTISEMENT TO THE PEOPLE OF THE UNITED STATES OF AMERICA.

To make use of poetry for strengthening patriotism, promoting virtue, and extending happiness, is to bring it back to its primitive exalted employments. The author of the poem on the Love of Country will not suppress his predilection for consecrating to such pursuits whatever poetical talents he may possess. With this view, he imagines he cannot select a more pertinent occasion, or a more suitable subject, than to celebrate the anniversary of the independence of his country, by inculcating sentiments of patriotism not inconsistent with our obligations of benevolence to the rest of mankind. He considers it of much importance to the promotion of human felicity, that the line which separates true from false patriotism should be accurately marked.

In almost every nation and age, savage or civilized, remarkable military exploits, and signal national deliverances, have been celebrated with songs of exultation and gratitude. The sublime and pathetic effusions of Moses, Deborah, and David, as well as the patriotic and heroic poems of the Greek and Latin writers; the monotonous notes or wild warblings of the bards in several countries where civilization had made but little progress; and the rude war songs, or mournful elegies of the aborigines of America, are proofs of this assertion.

What festival, ancient or modern, has been observed more generally or more cordially, than that of the birth of our nation, on the fourth day of July? This unanimity was produced, not by the peremptory commands or fulsome recommendations of a directorial government, but by the concurrent feelings of a free people. What event ought to be more deeply impressed on the public memory? What day can give a more instructive lesson? Or what occasion can be better calculated than this spontaneous solemnity, to inspire Americans with that love of country and force of union, by which alone the liberty and independence of the nation can be long maintained?

It is pleasant to reflect, that on the same day, in all parts of the world where a few Americans are assembled, they are in the habit of rejoicing together with decent hilarity, and of cherishing those social sentiments which were so feelingly participated in their common toils, sufferings and dangers. At home or abroad, what breast is not then as it were electrified by sympathetic recollections? Where is the cold-blooded wretch to be found, who disgraces the American name (if he be a native of that continent), by not feeling the sacred flame of patriotism kindling with redoubled ardour, from the mingled remembrance and emotion which this festival forces on his mind?

The author, in thus paying his tribute to the day, flatters himself he shall not be reproached for having sacrificed any interest, neglected any duty, or betrayed any trust. For he takes a becoming pride in asserting, that, in indulging his taste for poetry, he has never suspended his attention to the public service; and that no letter or application on business which ever came to him from any of his countrymen, in any quarter of the globe (and they have been extremely numerous), has ever been neglected at the moment, or remained unanswered longer than was inevitably necessary. In whatever point of light his poetical dispositions or literary acquirements may be considered, he is not a little desirous of preserving the reputation of an honest man, who has never ceased to act in every office he has filled, with diligence, zeal, and fidelity. He has ever taught by precept, and he hopes he has not counteracted the doctrine by example, that there can be no happiness without virtue, no liberty without morality, and no good public character without being at the same time a good private character. With the profession of such principles, accompanied by the most earnest wishes for their political and individual prosperity, he commits this work to the indulgence of his countrymen.

ARGUMENT.

Love of country, the subject proposed—prevalence of it, even in the most unfavourable climates and dangerous circumstances —reasons why the citizens of the United States ought to be particularly influenced by it—patriotism not incompatible with philanthropy—address to the Deity to be enabled to celebrate worthily that love by which the world was made for man— creation—man—his dignity inferred from his strange and complicated, but elevated nature—immortality of the soul—sympathy —affected sensibility—false philosophy—existence of a Supreme Being demonstrable from his works—superiority of nature to art, and of man to all the other mundane works of God—from the nobleness of his qualities and conceptions, man ought to despise pseudo-patriotism—conquerors—good sovereigns —every species of tyrannical government to be avoided— union recommended as necessary to preserve our liberty—our peculiar advantages for maintaining our independence—execration of discord and ambition—firmness of our government— determination of citizens of all ages and descriptions to repel invasion, or perish in the attempt—motives to animate the rising generation deduced from our struggle for independence—a review of its origin—the patriotic manner in which the American people were affected at the commencement of our revolution —arrival of the British and foreign troops—their chiefs— preparations to resist the foe—eulogium of the principal officers of the American army—happy termination of the war— the revision of these interesting scenes excites an ardent desire in the author to revisit his native country—indescribable sensations produced by love of country—concluding wish.

To Independence consecrate, this day
Demands the tribute of my annual lay;
Protector of that gift of God Supreme,
Thou, Love of Country! be this day my theme.
Hail sacred Love of Country! mystic tie!
That binds us to our native soil and sky!
Indissolubly binds through each extreme
Of noxious climes. The native braves the beam
Where darts the crimson sun, with downward ray,
O'er tropic isles, insufferable day.
Beneath cold Zembla's clouds, the last of men
Pent with his wife and children in his den,
Six wintry months, while hail and thunder pour
O'er rocks of ice, the elemental roar,
While sweeping tempests ride night's raven wings,
Still to his frozen cave more closely clings.
Nor where dire earthquakes sleep by Lisbon's rock,
Thy sons, oh Tagus! who once felt the shock,
Fly ere again the sleeping vengeance wake,
And low in dust the rebuilt city shake.
Nor yet Vesuvio's brow, with cinders bright,
Pouring red lavas through the noon of night,
Can make the peasant from his home retire,
And shun betimes the falling flood of fire.
Will ye in love of country be surpast?
For you the lot in pleasant places cast,
No common share of happiness affords—
Your rights asserted by your conqu'ring swords,
A government of your own choice possest,
With morals (surest pledge of freedom) blest;
Columbians! show ye love your favour'd lot,
By strong attachment to your natal spot.
Still Love of Country, on no narrow plan,
Exists consistent with the love of man.
In little circles love begins, not ends,
With parents, brothers, kindred, neighbours, friends:
As wave on wave, on circles circles press,
Our nation next we love, nor nature less:
Though still Columbia—best of parent names!—
The dearest proofs of filial fondness claims;
Man's general good this pref'rence not impedes,
Nor checks the soul from philanthropic deeds.
Illume my subject! tune my voice to sing!
Oh, thou who rid'st upon the whirlwind's wing,
(Majestic darkness!) or, in glory's beam,
Dwell'st inapproachable with light supreme!
If sweet philanthropy employs my care,
Hear, thou! on high th' undissipated pray'r!
Inspire my tongue to sing the wond'rous plan,
A world created for thy image, man.
Through realms of darkness, dreary, unenjoy'd,
Where anarchy and uproar rul'd the void,
Forth went th' eternal word, and far was driv'n
Primeval night before the pow'r of heaven—
What time he bade th' abyss with light rejoice,
Confusion fled and chaos heard his voice:
Th' Almighty fiat mark'd the spacious round,
Concent'ring land and water learn'd their bound;
This ball emergent from th' oblivious flood,
The great Creator saw and call'd it good.
Celestial beings view'd with vast delight,
A new-born star rise twinkling on their sight,
And as 'mid worlds of light the wonder hung,
Each sister orb with unknown music rung.
For whom was earth's stupendous fabric made?
For whom such pomp ineffable display'd?
What made the rolling spheres with music ring,
And sons of God symphonious concerts sing?
'Twas man's inexplicable, doubtful form,
Sprung from non-entity—a God—a worm—
The high-born spirit, native pure of day—
The body gross, but animated clay—
With parts so pure, so gross—enigma strange!
Alive, though dead—the same, though seen to change—
'Twas God's last work that fir'd angelic quires,
Gave worlds to space and themes to heav'nly lyres.
What though to death a prey, this earthy crust
Dissolves and moulders with its mother dust;
Th' inserted part a graff divine appears,
From heav'n translated to this vale of tears—
Not long in alien air to waste its bloom,
Nor shall the grave the falling shoot inhume;
More beauteous rising from the deathful strife,
Immortal offspring of the tree of life!
Thou child of heav'n and earth! a stream divine
From the first fountain feeds your veins and mine.
Oh man, my brother! how, by blood allied,
Swells in my breast the sympathetic tide?
Shall I not wish thee well, not work thy good,
Deaf to th' endearing cries of kindred blood?
What! shall my soul, involv'd in matter dense,
(Obdur'd this bosom and benum'd each sense),
Lose, grateful sympathy! thy genial ray,
Quench'd in the dampness of this crust of clay?
No, give me, heav'n! affections quick, refin'd,
The keen emotions that entrance the mind—
What youthful bards, what ardent heroes feel,
The lover's rapture and the patriot's zeal;
The zeal that aims humanity to bless,
Oh, let me feel, and, what I feel, express!
With feelings not less strong than others born,
Affected sensibility I scorn.
Nor finds my breast benevolence or joy,
By generalising feeling, to destroy.
I hate that new philosophy's strange plan,
That teaches love for all things more than man;
To love all mortals save our friends alone,
To hold all countries dearer than our own;
To take no int'rest in the present age,
Rapt to th' unborn with philanthropic rage;
To make the tutor'd eyes with tears o'erflow,
More for fictitious than for real woe!
Then let my breast more pure sensations prove,
And on just objects fix appropriate love:
First on that God whose wond'rous works I scan,
Next on the noblest of his creatures, man.
A God, the soul of Being, still the same,
Through everlasting days, his deeds proclaim:
Whose arm created where no eye can pierce,
Systems on systems through the universe?
And who propell'd their orbs? in motion keeps?
Say, Atheist! say—whose eye-lid never sleeps?
Whose breath's existence? Omnipresence, space?
And who sustains thy life, blasphemer of his grace?
Say, live there mortals form'd with organs such,
They nature prize too little, art too much?
I love th' immortal marble's breathing form,
With life instinct, with animation warm;
Where pictur'd canvass glows with living dyes,
Charm'd, I behold a new creation rise:
Nor less I love of human skill the pride,
The tall bark bounding on the billowy tide:
Or art's consummate task, the city grac'd
With Grecian columns or with Tuscan taste.
If such delight art's curious works afford,
Shall I not rather love creation's Lord?
To me, oh nature! all thy music bring,
O'er all heav'n's other works of man to sing.
Thy varied voice in every breeze I hear,
Delightful nature! mingling in my ear.
Though sweet the sound of zephyr's whispering breath,
And leaves that rustle o'er the furzy heath;
Though sweet the babbling brook, the patt'ring show'r,
And echo mocking from the neighb'ring tow'r;
What time the mimic prattles half-form'd words,
And sweet at morn or eve the charm of birds:
The song of nature's bard more transport yields
Than all the chorus of the warbling fields;
His soothing accent soft as dews of heav'n,
That slake the feverish flow'ret's thirst at ev'n.
Inspir'd, in meditation's sober hour,
I trace through all his works th' Almighty pow'r,
Whose ceaseless bounties round the seasons roll,
Till gratitude and gladness fill my soul.
While nature charms with annual changes bland,
I love the novel, beautiful and grand.
I love the children of parturient spring,
The plants that blossom, and the birds that sing;
When near my noon-tide bow'r, the genial gale
With life and love re-animates each vale.
I love the landscape fair with cultur'd farms,
When ruddy summer spreads his roseate charms;
When day's last glimm'rings fade along the skies,
Pleas'd I observe the paly crescent rise,
What time eve's gauzy veil the day-glare dims,
And vap'ry twilight o'er th' horizon swims.
With joy I view the morning mists appear,
When autumn's sceptre rules the ripen'd year;
Lo, where the reaper gathers Ceres' gifts,
And from the fields their yellow burden lifts!
Around, what prospects cheer the ravish'd eye?
Above, what glowing colours gild the sky?
Then oft the clouds from heav'n's bright loom unroll'd,
Display their silvery tissue wrought with gold,
Whose skirts transparent arrowy lustres tinge,
And lavish rainbows round th' ethereal fringe.
My soul exults to soar from earth at night,
When wintry skies are wrapp'd in boreal light;
When sanguine meteors streak with dismal stains
The lurid air, and shoot athwart the plains;
Or when each star is muffled, and a robe,
Dark as the pall of death, invests the globe;
While loud the whirlwind round the forest raves,
And rocks reverberate the roar of waves;
Or lessening surges leave the craggy shore,
As the tir'd tempest half forgets to roar,
On dark-red clouds, when storms electric ride,
And fire with frequent flash the mountain's side;
I love to hear the distant thunders roll,
That swell to dread sublimity the soul.
Though nature charm through all her varying forms,
And God be seen in sunshine as in storms;
Yet man a more congenial love inspires,
Wakes better transports and sublimer fires;
He, form'd for higher schemes, conceptions vast,
Surveys the future, and reviews the past,
And sees o'er scanty bounds of space and time,
Bosom'd in bliss his native home sublime.
Shall we to whom this loftier lot is giv'n,
With elevated eye to look on heav'n,
Not look contemptuous down on meaner things,
The pomp of conquest and the pride of kings!
Nor stung by mad ambition, count the cost
Of solid good in empty titles lost!
Perish the Roman pride a world that braves,
To make for one free state all nations slaves;
Their boasted patriotism at once exprest,
Love for themselves and hate for all the rest!
Can love, whose liberal pow'rs enlarge the mind,
By local plans thus basely be confin'd?
Then be such narrow policy accurst,
Of insults keenest as of wrongs the worst!
Live there whose minds, perverted, pleasure find
In forging fetters for subdu'd mankind!
From conquest think to gain a glorious name,
And raise on human wretchedness their fame!
'Tis time to call such monsters from their crimes,
Scourges of heav'n, and tyrants for their times.
My soul abhors injustice—and shall wrong
Escape the sting of my vindictive song?
Enrag'd, shall I capitulations make
With vaunting conqu'rors, for false pity's sake?
Men must I see, whom slaves as gods adore,
Wreath their proud brows with laurels dipt in gore?
Soon shall their laurels, pluck'd by force unjust,
Fall immature and wither in the dust.
Nor less, if justice rules this universe,
Though prosp'rous still, shall pangs the tyrant pierce.
Behold the wretch to torment doom'd ere dead!
What nightly visions haunt his troubled bed?
Him pomp nor pleasure lulls, or riots din,
While conscience holds a holy court within:
Vain all that charm'd before, triumphal cars,
The wrecks of nations and the spoils of wars.
Mantled in blood, what spectres pale appear!
What moans and cries assail his startled ear!
Then at still midnight's hour, his murd'rous mind
To reason-racking agonies consign'd,
Shrinks as the shadowy shapes terrific rise—
Shivers his flesh, his hair stands stiff, his eyes
With frenzy staring from their sockets start,
While gnaws th' undying worm his anguish'd heart.
Is it for this, thy thirst for taxes drains
The sweat and tears that fertilize the plains?
Is it for this, vain pageant of an hour!
Thou mak'st the nations groan beneath thy pow'r?
Torn from their friends, to war thy vassals fly,
Live for thy pastime, at thy mandate die?
But say, insensate! when thy wheels no more
Shall roll in carnage or be clogg'd with gore,
Say, what the meed, when (all thy triumphs past)
Thou sink'st in black oblivion's gulf at last?
So that broad stream that sweeps unbounded plains,
Great Mississippi, wastes the wide domains,
When sudden swoln with congregated rills,
That rush and thunder from a thousand hills,
He hastes resistless to his ocean-grave,
The sire of rivers! —now a nameless wave!
Yet rais'd to thrones by merit, chance or birth,
At times, have righteous monarchs rul'd on earth;
Guides of their age, and guardians of their realm,
Whose names oblivion's wave shall ne'er o'erwhelm.
But when fell ign'rance wraps the world in shade,
Thy plagues, oh Despotism! each land pervade.
Or if a transient gleam through some extends,
How freedom trembles at pretended friends!
While demagogues, to gain a boundless sway,
The people flatter first, and next betray;
With false professions real slavery bring,
The guileful regents of the people-king!
Rise then, ye patriots tried! who wear no mask,
Decline no danger, and refuse no task,
To save th' endanger'd state—unveil their guile!
Man's rights and obligations reconcile!
The demon-fury of the mob restrain,
And bind licentiousness in law's strong chain!
Though dire the desolation conqu'rors cause,
When death behind them opes insatiate jaws;
Though great the plagues, though horrible the curse
Of despotism! still anarchy is worse—
Undup'd by popular names, shall we not shun
The tyranny of MANY as of ONE?
Tell, ye who FREEDOM sought in martial strife,
What guards that greatest good of social life?
What constitutes the best defence of states?
Is it their floating tow'rs? their brazen gates?
Their troops innumerable? 'Tis one soul
That gives, by union, force beyond the whole.
Columbians! friends! in fields of battle brave!
Defend those rights the God of nature gave.
Heav'ns! what the price those rights, invaded, cost!
What wealth expended and what heroes lost!
Their shades still cry from many a battle-plain,
“Who bled for FREEDOM have not bled in vain.”
I see blest Warren rise—an awful shade—
And great Montgomery wave the crimson'd blade;
Mild Mercer, dreadful in the fields of war;
Athletic Brown, deform'd with many a scar;
Scammel, his country's boast, the Britons' shame;
De Hart, who fell when dawning into fame;
De Kalb (from Gallic climes) the vet'rans' pride;
Laurens, the last who for his country died!
These cry for union—with ten thousand more,
Without a shroud who fester'd in their gore;
Swept from the field in undistinguish'd doom,
And thrown promiscuous in a common tomb—
Self-offered victims for their country's good,
Who ratified our charter'd rights with blood.
Oh, hear their cry, thou delegated band
Of patriots! chosen rulers of the land!
Each selfish thought exchang'd for patriot zeal,
With one accord promote the public weal:
Each party name, each harsh distinction drown'd
In concord's soft, conciliating sound!
Our land (for war each heart, each hand prepar'd)
A living strength impregnable shall guard.
Strong in our various regions' vast resource,
Strong in our own unconquerable force,
Strong in our best ally, th' Atlantic waves,
Who dares attempt to make Columbians slaves,
Sees on his head th' intended mischief driv'n,
For earth a monument of wrath from heav'n!
Still will our warlike sires their aid afford,
To guard that independence which their sword
Achiev'd—and still their sons, like Sparta's band,
The rushing millions in the strait withstand—
The nation calmly rise at freedom's call,
United flourish or united fall.
Hence far, oh Discord! be thy horrid crimes,
And hateful influence from our happy climes!
Thou, lust of domination! who has hurl'd
Plagues on all regions, spare the western world!
May curses dire from ages long to come,
Pursue the miscreant ev'n beyond the tomb,
Who, rul'd by mad ambition's murd'rous star,
In wantonness illumes the torch of war.
May the rais'd hand that wills for blood to vote
Without a cause, by God's red arm be smote!
Dumb struck the tongue that strives to call to arms,
Or lure to war with conquest's dazzling charms.
Nor shall the nations join'd in fierce affray,
With bribes or threats our stedfast councils sway;
In vain they soothe, in vain their menace roars,
Like the dash'd billow on our rocky shores.
The spark of patriot fire, with earliest breath
Enkindled, fears no quenching damps of death.
Me love of country fir'd in early life,
To rush amidst the military strife:
Touch'd by that heat, no dangers daunt the brave,
Though foes unnumber'd hide the strand or wave.
Should russian war again insult our land,
Should civil discord shake her blazing brand;
Soon would my song, like songs of Tyrteus old,
Fire with new rage the bosoms of the bold;
Soon would our patriots march at music's sound,
And not a coward in the ranks be found!
The chill, slow blood of vet'rans soon would start,
And boil and eddy round the heated heart.
Though thou, old age! unlovely, dark, and cold,
Art prone to quell the spirits of the bold;
To freeze the veins, with palsy smite each limb,
And make the late keen-sighted eye-balls dim;
Though for my peers thy frosty fingers strow
The cheeks with paleness and the locks with snow;
Yet will those heroes venerable rise,
A spark unquench'd still flashing from their eyes,
In freedom's cause their bosoms beating high,
Prepar'd to conquer, or resolv'd to die;
Around their country's standard rallying soon,
In all the promptness of life's genial noon,
Form walls of aged breasts, to ward the ball
From younger, and avert their country's fall:
Or if it falls—none living leave to weep—
But rest all buried in the ruins deep.
From sires so brave descends one dastard son,
Would basely yield the prize his father won?
Their fathers' fame repels that foul disgrace,
And spurs to splendid deeds the rising race.
Now should our youths, the renovating age,
Hear from their fathers, ere we quit this stage,
Our feats in war—what chiefs, as pillars, stood
For freedom firm, and built their fame in blood!—
Then learn, blest youths!—to independence born!—
What gloomy prospects usher'd in our morn!
To Britain long attach'd, from whence we sprung,
Whose praises dwelt on every infant tongue—
Sons of her sons, and sharers in their fame—
Our laws, religion, language, rights the same!
At last a right she claim'd, new, unconfin'd,
“In every case the colonists to bind.”
Thence rose resistance. Rebels then proclaim'd—
For weakness, discord, cowardice, defam'd—
Of preparation void—mid first alarms,
No ships, tow'rs, treasures, arsenals or arms,
To us belong'd. No league, nor army ours,
Till common danger call'd forth common pow'rs.
In vain the foe from states so feebly join'd,
With hopes of mean submission sooth'd his mind;
Proud stood the states by threat'nings undismay'd,
And with retorted scorn his threats repaid.
And didst thou hope, beyond th' Atlantic waves,
To bend unyielding freemen into slaves?
To make a continent that knows no end,
For ever on thy little isle depend?
Didst thou, presumptuous! dream the conquest won?
Did we, though weak, th' unequal combat shun?
And ye who witness'd sad, when, round our shore,
We heard from sea th' approaching cannon roar,
Skirting th' horizon saw (without one friend)
From dim-roll'd decks a redd'ning host impend,
A magazine of war each pregnant sail,
Say, what knee trembled or what face turn'd pale?
Nor sooner we beheld, in vengeance dire,
The shells high bursting cleave the clouds with fire,
Than union grew as danger came more near—
To daring deeds we rose!—while all that's dear,
While all that makes ev'n frozen bosoms melt,
Infus'd the feelings cowards never felt.
Haste forg'd us arms—th' ignoble rustic steel
A glorious weapon gleam'd—while our appeal
To heav'n's high throne we made, what crowds repair
To temples of the Lord in fervent pray'r?
Their fathers' God Omnipotent they nam'd,
While the great Congress solemn fasts proclaim'd.
No tongue with lies, no face in falsehood drest,
Mock'd the heart-searcher in his holy rest:
But strong devotions, undispers'd in air,
Rose prevalent in agony of pray'r.
“From Britain's vet'ran bands, from hireling hosts,
From thund'ring ships that darken all our coasts,
From fire and sword save us, oh Lord!” they cried—
“Save us, oh Lord!” th' echoing aisles replied—
“Oh, grant success may crown a cause so good,
Or let us seal our principles in blood:
Before our leader's breast thy buckler spread,
In days of battle cover thou his head:
To conquest guide him, and, when war shall cease,
Make him thy delegate of good in peace.”
Then as a comet through the hazy air,
O'er earth, portentous, waves his fiery hair;
The blazing beacons seen from mountains far,
Portended the dire plagues of rushing war.
Then but one passion fill'd each throbbing breast,
Combin'd, attracted, or absorb'd the rest—
Collected in ourselves we stood, nor thought
That LIBERTY too dearly could be bought.
Inestimable prize! for that alone
Life was not counted dear, or ev'n our own.
How oft love's fires in female breasts that burn'd,
A kindling kiss to flames heroic turn'd
Then tim'rous virgins show'd no shameful fears,
Their lovers' hearts they harden'd ev'n by tears—
By patriot tears to glory lur'd, the swains
Now flam'd bold soldiers on th' embattled plains:
So glowing iron bath'd in limpid streams,
Its temper chang'd—the steel of battle beams.
How oft we saw beneath the cottage-roof,
Of purest patriotism no vulgar proof!
From martial exercise with village bands,
In arms a youth before a matron stands,
Grac'd with ingenuous blush—that blush confest
The double duty that disturb'd his breast:
The matron-mother ey'd with eager joy,
Clasp'd in embrace, and thus bespoke the boy:
“Thy comrades rush to glory's fields afar,
Lag not behind, but haste to join the war.
There reigns above, whose care delights to bless,
To feed the widow and the fatherless;
May he”—Th' unfinish'd accents fail'd her tongue,
Approv'd, not long in idle gaze he clung—
Strait beat the drum—the filial tear that fell,
A tear maternal met, in mute farewell.
By freedom rous'd, from populous cities swarms
Forsook their trades or arts and flew to arms.
“Fly, fly!” exclaim'd the recent married fair,
“To war my love! my heart attends thee there:
Though born a woman, not for slavery born,
I hate a tyrant and a coward scorn:
Fear not for all that's dear to change, in war,
Thy bloom for wounds and beauty for a scar—
Then brown with dust and blood from battles won,
Swift to my arms, my loveliest hero! run—
All ills forgotten—caught from breast to breast
The rapt'rous glow—caressing and carest—
Then shall we prove the joys of heav'n in store,
To meet in freedom and to part no more.”
Awful in age, with dignified applause,
Our sires imprest a reverence on our cause.
And shall I not remember words that fell,
As thus my father bade three sons farewell?
“In peace I liv'd (though stricken well with years).
To see your manhood—now a war appears—
Had not the chills of age these nerves unstrung,
Myself would go—but ye are strong and young—
Your country calls—my sons! to battle bear
An old man's blessing and a father's pray'r—
Our cause in just—to guard each sacred right,
Go, in heav'n's name, and dare the dreadful fight—
Go, act the man—from you I hope no less—
And may the Lord of Hosts protect and bless!”
From utmost isles o'er foaming billows tost,
The sight of land for many a dark day lost;
Borne on a thousand ships with fifes and drums,
And blood-red streamers, lo! where Britain comes.
Lo! where the ship-borne host from ocean speeds!
Hark, mingling sounds of men and neighing steeds,
The rattling cannon, ammunition car,
With arms of fire and magazines of war!
The steeds rejoice to snuff the land once more,
Leap in the wallowing wave, and swim to shore;
Amaz'd, a moment, shivering, shake away
The briny drops. Then form'd in war's array,
At first they reeling walk—but ere long bound,
And prance impatient at the trumpet's sound.
Nor yet the joints their supplest movement find,
Nor yet their wet manes wanton in the wind,
As squadrons wheel to take, for march, their place,
Some curvet in a long, some shorter pace;
Champing their curbs, the churned froth they shed,
And thick resounds of clattering hoofs the tread.
By fits the bright steel sparkling strikes the sight,
A misty ridge of mountain fire at night.
Emerg'd from fogs the infantry appears—
The gay light troops—the gloomy grenadiers—
The royal guards in glittering laces drest,
The white plume nodding o'er the frowning crest,
Move in the van. Ensigns and flags unfurl'd,
They seek new conquests in a new found world.
For these through distant climes in fields of fame,
Full oft had toil'd with chiefs of glorious name;
Chiefs old in war, who, in some better cause,
Had still acquir'd new claims to high applause.
Rob'd in vermilion dye, the files of war,
Unfolding, stretch'd their banner'd wings afar.
Tall in the flaming front, with martial rage,
Tow'r'd the bold chieftains, Clinton, Howe, and Gage.
With noble badges deck'd, in lordly guise,
Percy, Cornwallis, Moira, caught our eyes,
For dignity remark'd. There Burgoyne mov'd,
A book-learn'd Captain, by the muse belov'd:
And Carleton sage, whom regal favours grace,
Conferring peerage on th' ennobled race:
Lincoln and Cathcart beam'd, while knights star-drest
Display'd “their blushing honours” on their breast.
Near canvass walls, Vaughan, Leslie, Mathews, rang'd,
And Prescot captur'd twice, and twice exchang'd.
There march'd, on manag'd steeds, with harness gay,
O'Hara, Philips, Pigot, Garth and Grey.
There Lairds, whose car-borne sires to battle rode,
The Stuarts, Fraziers, Campbells, Erskines, strode:
M'Leods, M'Donalds, Gordons, Douglas, strove,
In southern sands, and many a northern grove.
There hoary Haldimand, long since who came
From poor Helvetia, rich in warlike fame,
Stood stately. Next, whom German climes afar,
Had nurs'd for blood fields in a former war,
De Heister, Knyphausen, Redheisel, brave,
And Donop destin'd to a foreign grave,
Stalk'd proudly on—and led the venal band—
Promis'd (miscall'd rebellion crush'd) the land
Should be their own. These men their princes sold,
And barter'd precious lives for paltry gold.
Yet haply some, when conquer'd, shall enjoy
That liberty they labour'd to destroy!
For he to whom war's destinies belong,
Decreed the weak should triumph o'er the strong:
What wonder, though the might of Britain fought,
And fam'd confederates works of valour wrought;
An infant nation, warm'd by freedom's flame,
Should win the prize, and gain immortal fame?
To meet th' incursion of that mighty host,
Ierne's pride, and Britain's proudest boast;
The Brunswick marksmen shooting deaths from far,
The Hessian yagers train'd to hunt in war;
Grim Anspach giants, grisly Hanau elves,
The people offer'd willingly themselves.
As rise in clouds the progeny of spring,
The nations wafted on aurelean wing,
Age, manhood, youth, with chosen leaders came,
Lur'd by the love of liberty and fame:
For them the glorious toil of battle yields,
The laurel harvest reap'd in iron fields.
Daughters of mem'ry! maids! whose vigils keep
The lamps unquench'd in vaults where heroes sleep;
As round the quivering flame ye tuneful watch,
Their names from death and dumb oblivion snatch:
Then Time, who meets Eternity, shall find
What patriot-chiefs—examples for mankind—
Stood boldly foremost—Bards! the high song raise,
And with their names immortalize your lays!
There, Washington! thy form unrivall'd rose,
Thy country's bulwark! terror of the foes!
Supreme o'er all in stature, talents, grace,
The first in merit as the first in place.
There stood, in tactics skill'd, the vet'ran Gates,
A strenuous victor for the northern states:
He, too, at Braddock's field, in early life,
Had shar'd with Washington that dreadful strife.
Next Greene appear'd, with self-earn'd knowledge fraught,
The strongest judgment and intensest thought—
Experience small by genius great supplied,
His firmness growing as new perils tried—
Fertile in each resource—his piercing view
Intuitively look'd creation through—
Clear in his breast the whole campaign was plann'd,
Foredoom'd by heav'n to save our southern land.
His body rough with scars, near Gates and Greene,
Unletter'd Putnam's louring brow was seen;
Stern as he stood, none more for woe could feel,
His heart all softness, but his nerves all steel;
In peace a lamb, in fight a lion fierce,
And not a name more honour'd decks my verse.
In life's bleak winter Spencer ardent rose,
But faint the flesh, and soon to seek repose.
With silver'd locks the fiery Stirling came,
O'er old experience blaz'd still new a flame;
A furnace glow'd his eye—and grand his port,
Alike was fitted for a camp or court.
Then Sullivan, to rival pomp inclin'd,
Few equals knew for native pow'rs of mind.
Where Ward commanded first, Heath's second sway
Of Massachusetts led the long array;
Before whose thousands Lincoln took his post,
Serene, decisive, and himself a host:
From midland meads here crowds of farmers join,
With Patterson's brigade, that lengthening line;
Two more brigades which yeomen stout compose,
Nixon and Greaton form in face of foes;
Where Glover's call conducts his docile tars,
Neptunean sons adopted now by Mars!
Like changing metals mingled bands convolve,
One solid corps that nothing can dissolve.
There Knox the mortars, fill'd with tempest, taught
To raise their roar. There Morgan's woodsmen fought,
Whose rifle-balls that urg'd the sylvan war,
In nobler chace now carry fate afar.
As from substantial night, magnific came,
And roll'd in light yon planetary frame,
Whose march, instinctive, men amaz'd behold:
So from a mass confus'd our army roll'd,
Harmonious movement! parts accordant link'd,
Wheel within wheel, with spirit all instinct!
With late night watchings wan, by him approv'd,
Whose godlike word the vast machinery mov'd,
Pickering the train prepar'd, th' encampment found,
The van preceded and design'd the ground.
There Wadsworth's bread sustain'd for stronger strife,
Erst fainting bands, with renovated life;
Oft he from distant states the viands brought,
Increas'd their strength, and fed them while they fought.
Where roar'd their cannon as the battle bled,
Lamb, Proctor, Harrison and Stephens sped.
From low Manhattan up the Highland steep,
M'Dougall pac'd in cogitation deep.
The Clintons there in toils fraternal vied,
(With York's battalions) void of fear and pride:
And Schuyler's chief command had led that force
Far to the north—but sickness check'd his course.
Though there o'er St. Clair fortune seem'd to frown,
Shall fortune blast the warrior's well-won crown?
Then Warren, Mercer, Nash, Montgomery, shone,
Though dimm'd with blood—too liberal of their own!—
Like the large oak that many a winter stood,
The tallest glory of its native wood,
Wooster was seen to stand—and like that oak,
I saw him fall beneath the fatal stroke.
By ambush'd foes, courageous Scriven died,
Where Georgia's fatten'd crops the slaughter hide;
While Davidson, deep-wounded, gasp'd in gore,
Where shoal Catawba lav'd the troop-lin'd shore.
When Herkimer, sore maim'd, still fighting, fell,
Far o'er scant Mowhawk reach'd the Indian yell:
Where Warner, Gansevort, the savage brav'd,
And nigh Canadian lakes their starry standards wav'd.
As fly autumal leaves athwart some dale,
Borne on the pinions of the sounding gale;
Or glides thin gossamer o'er rustling reeds,
Bland's, Sheldon's, Moylan's, Baylor's, battle steeds
So skimm'd the plain. Helms plum'd and broad-swords bright
Cast glimses o'er the ground like northern light.
There quick-ey'd Arnold, not a traitor then,
Vain, on his courser, soar'd mid mightiest men:
Now fall'n like Lucifier, the son of morn,
By Britain brib'd and doom'd to deathless scorn:
For falsehood mark'd, to infamy consign'd,
One grateful truth he left to glad mankind,
That in so long a war his lonely crime
Should stain the annals of recording Time.—
Then valiant Wayne, with kindled anger warm,
Bar'd his red blade and claim'd to drive the storm,
Death-doing hero! still that bloody blade,
(Long rusting in his hall) again display'd,
Through wildering woods will guide the daring troop,
For ever watchful of the savage whoop:—
Thence painted kings their broken faith shall rue,
Chas'd by the nimble horse in conflict new,
And gash'd with Bayonne's steel—those kings no more
Shall teach their tribes to thirst for captive gore;
For valiant Wayne shall bid the woods-war cease,
And give the taste of civil arts with peace.
'Twas then th' undaunted Daytons, sire and son,
With Jersey-blues their diff'rent trophies won:
With these Cadwallader fresh levies brought,
And Dickenson, though Penn's disciple, fought.
Then Huger, Maxwell, Mifflin, Marshalls, Read,
Hasten'd, from States remote, to seize the meed:
Howell's and Davie's swords, 'mid thousand deaths,
The laurels cropt to twine with myrtle wreaths.
While Smallwood, Parsons, Shepherd, Irwin, Hand,
Guest, Weedon, Muhlenburg, leads each his band;
While Thompson, Hogan, Scott, whom adverse stars
Long captur'd held, return to toil in wars;
While Poor and Woodford yield in tents their breath,
Stark rode victorious in the field of death;
The mountains-green, that witness'd first his fame,
From rocks to rocks resounded far the name.
As the tough horn-beam (peering o'er those rocks),
With gnarled grain the riving thunder mocks;
Indignant Allen, manacled in vain,
With soul revolting, bit the British chain.
Not last, though smallest, Del'ware's dauntless throng,
With Bedford, Hall, and Kirkwood grace the song:
Nor less the song of southern chiefs shall tell,
How Sumner bled, and Campbell conquering fell;
Moultrie, and M'Intosh, and Elbert stood,
Though foil'd, invincible, in streams of blood;
What time resistless Albion's torrent force
Swept round the south its wide and wasting course.
Her dreadless horsemen, high with conquest flush'd,
Through States subdued, like winds impetuous rush'd!
From them militia bands were seen to fly,
Light as the rack that scuds along the sky:
And oft, our leaders, with a gallant few,
(Names dear to fame!) the noble strife renew.
Moore, Gadsden, Caswell, Rutherford, and Ash,
With Bryant, bade the flint of battle flash;
While Gregory, Butler, Williamson, and Clark,
Bull, Lawson, Stephens, fed the growing spark,
Which, Brenan, Lacey, Sevier, taught to burn,
And from King's-mountain back on Britain turn;
'Till, rous'd by Cleveland's, Shelby's fanning breath,
It ran, like lightning, o'er the pitch-pine heath.
To turn its havoc headlong on his foes,
A whirlwind from the north, then Greene arose;
His brandish'd steel a burning meteor glar'd,
'Mid blackness bickering fire his way prepar'd;
While Marion, Pickens, Sumpter, thund'ring loud,
Roll'd down their dark'ning cliffs a living cloud;
Like spirits of the storm, beside great Greene,
Young rivals, Lee and Washington, were seen,—
Wheeling their squadron'd horse. There Howard came,
And shot through Tarleton's ranks pernicious flame.
Two Pinckneys came, in war, in peace both great,
And both conspicuous for a wreath of State:
Two Williams, diff'rent though their place of birth,
Alike their prowess, and alike their worth.
Howe from the south, to eastern climates hied,
And hail'd at Hudson's forts our rising pride!
There what brave youths for arms relinquish'd books,
Cobb, Varnum, Ogdens, Huntingtons, and Brooks.
There Swift, Hull, Sherburn, Olney, Smiths were found,
And Hamilton, “by both Minervas crown'd.”
Nor shall my numbers pass unheeded by
The Wyllys brothers—one beneath the sky
Sleeps in the western wild—his bosom gor'd
With barb'rous wounds—in many song deplor'd.
Nor shall the Trumbulls not my lay inspire,
Distinguish'd offspring of a glorious sire!
Nor shall my lay withhold the just applause
From foreign chiefs who came to aid our cause:
Their various garbs and arms, and language strange,
To lend more service, straight the warriors change.
Steuben, mature in years, from Prussia's plains,
The peerless Frederick's art of war explains.
Fayette's light corps its well-earn'd fame supports,
And Armand's legion rash adventures courts.
With Poland's suff'rings rankling in his mind,
Our levied forces Kosciusko join'd,
Expert to change the front, retreat, advance,
And judge of ground with military glance:
While strong Pulaske's troops for battle rave,
Intrepid swordsmen! bravest of the brave!
These chiefs illustrious led, in part, the host;
But who can name Columbia's countless boast?
Who count the sands by eddying whirlblasts driv'n,
Or number all the stars that rise in heav'n?
Yet stir one sleeping image, straight the brain
Leads kindred myriads with a magic chain;
While all the shapes to mem'ry that belong,
In shadowy cohorts swell the subject throng.
When night and solitude o'er earth and skies
Extend their gloom, what forms of heroes rise
Full on my view! what feats, that grac'd each band,
Till peace, with independence bless'd our land!
And oft in recollections sad, but dear,
I soothe long absence with a secret tear—
Where'er I wander, or where'er I rest,
The love of country warms my lab'ring breast;
And as the flame within my bosom burns,
Each trembling feeling tow'rds Columbia turns.
'Tis like the steel whose magnet-instinct guides
O'er unknown oceans and bewild'ring tides,
And though the lone bark, wrapp'd in darkness, roll,
Still points its path and vibrates to the pole.
Speak, ye who youthful felt the big tear start,
As first your home ye left with heavy heart,
The bliss (long years elaps'd) to see that spot!
Alike the marble dome and mud-wall'd cot
Restore to mind the sports and joys of youth,
Each heartfelt proof of innocence and truth!
How each remember'd toy the scene endears,
And home the loveliest place on earth appears!
Thou humble spot beneath Columbia's skies,
Where dawn'd the day-star on my opening eyes,
Can I forget thee in this distant scene,
Though ocean rolls a world of waves between?
How oft some spirit deign'd, from blissful bow'rs,
With dreams of thee to charm my sleeping hours!
Thoughts not my own, still whisper'd soft and clear,
As songs of seraphs to th' unsensual ear,
With kind delusion cur'd my waking pains,
Whether 'mid deaths I slept on tented plains;
Or tir'd with travel on some desert steep,
Or rock'd in cradles of the roaring deep;
Or when my sails at crafty courts were furl'd,
In many a region of this restless world.
While yet detain'd beneath Iberian skies,
Still for my native land new longings rise:
Me keen remembrance goads, by seas confin'd,
While all my country rushes on my mind.
Fir'd at the name, I feel the patriot heat
Throb in my bosom, in my pulses beat,
And on my visage glow. Though what I feel
No words can tell—unutterable zeal!—
Yet thou, Omniscient! whose all-searching eyes
Behold the hidden thoughts that in us rise,
Accept the silent pray'r—“increase, secure,
My country's bliss, while nature's self endure;
'Till pass'd the race of man, like fleeting wind,
Whose viewless current leaves no trace behind,
Th' irrevocable voice from Heav'n absorb
In smould'ring flames, the annihilated orb!”