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190

OCCASIONAL POEMS.

191

ELEGY ON THE BURNING OF FAIRFIELD, IN CONNECTICUT.

Written in 1779, on the Spot where that Town stood.
Ye smoking ruins, marks of hostile ire,
Ye ashes warm, which drink the tears that flow,
Ye desolated plains, my voice inspire,
And give soft music to the song of woe.
How pleasant, Fairfield, on th' enraptur'd sight
Rose thy tall spires, and op'd thy social halls!
How oft my bosom beat with pure delight,
At yonder spot where stand the darken'd walls!
But there the voice of mirth resounds no more,
A silent sadness through the streets prevails:
The distant main alone is heard to roar,
And hollow chimnies hum with sullen gales—
Save where scorch'd elms th' untimely foliage shed,
Which, rustling, hovers round the faded green—
Save where, at twilight, mourners frequent tread,
'Mid recent graves o'er desolation's scene.
How chang'd the blissful prospect, when compar'd,
These glooms funereal, with thy former bloom,
Thy hospitable rights when Tryon shar'd,
Long ere he seal'd thy melancholy doom!
That impious wretch, with coward voice decreed
Defenceless domes and hallow'd fanes to dust;
Beheld, with sneering smile, the wounded bleed,
And spurr'd his bands to rapine, blood and lust.
192

Vain was the widow's, vain the orphan's cry,
To touch his feelings, or to sooth his rage—
Vain the fair drop that roll'd from beauty's eye,
Vain the dumb grief of supplicating age.
Could Tryon hope to quench the patriot flame,
Or make his deeds survive in glory's page?
Could Britons seek of savages the fame,
Or deem it conquest, thus the war to wage?
Yes, Britons! scorn the councils of the skies,
Extend wide havock, spurn th' insulted foes;
Th' insulted foes to tenfold vengeance rise,
Resistance growing as the danger grows.
Red in their wounds, and pointing to the plain,
The visionary shapes before me stand—
The thunder bursts, the battle burns again,
And kindling fires encrimson all the strand.
Long dusky wreaths of smoke, reluctant driv'n,
In black'ning volumes o'er the landscape bend:
Here the broad splendour blazes high to heav'n,
There umber'd streams in purple pomp ascend.
In fiery eddies, round the tott'ring walls,
Emitting sparks, the lighter fragments fly;
With frightful crash the burning mansion falls,
The works of years in glowing embers lie.
Tryon, behold thy sanguine flames aspire,
Clouds ting'd with dyes intolerable bright;
Behold, well pleas'd, the village wrapt in fire;
Let one wide ruin glut thy ravish'd sight!
Ere fades the grateful scene, indulge thine eye,
See age and sickness, tremulously slow,
Creep from the flames—see babes in torture die,
And mothers swoon in agonies of woe.
Go, gaze, enraptur'd with the mother's tear,
The infant's terror, and the captive's pain,
Where no bold bands can check thy curst career;
Mix fire with blood on each unguarded plain!
193

These be thy triumphs! this thy boasted fame!
Daughters of mem'ry, raise the deathless songs!
Repeat through endless years his hated name,
Embalm his crimes, and teach the world our wrongs.

ELEGY ON LIEUTENANT DE HART,

Volunteer Aid to General Wayne.

When Autumn, all humid and drear,
With darkness and storms in his train,
Announcing the death of the year,
Despoil'd of its verdure the plain:
When horror congenial prevail'd,
Where graves are with fearfulness trod,
De Hart by his sister was wail'd;
His sister thus sigh'd o'er his sod:
“Near Hudson, a fort, on these banks,
“Its flag of defiance unfurl'd:
“He led to the storm the first ranks;
“On them iron tempests were hurl'd.
“Transpierc'd was his breast with a ball—
“His breast a red fountain supply'd,
“Which, gushing in waves still and small,
“Distain'd his white bosom and side.
“His visage was ghastly in death,
“His hair, that so lavishly curl'd,
“I saw, as he lay on the heath,
“In blood, and with dew-drops impearl'd.
“How dumb is the tongue that could speak
“Whate'er could engage and delight!
“How faded the rose on his cheek!
“Those eyes, how envelop'd in night!
194

“Those eyes, that illumin'd each soul,
“All darken'd to us are now grown:
“In far other orbits they roll,
“Like stars to new systems when gone.
“My brother, the pride of the plain,
“In vain did the graces adorn;
“His blossom unfolded in vain,
“To die like the blossom of morn.
“Oh war! thou hast wasted our clime,
“And tortur'd my bosom with sighs;
“My brother, who fell ere his prime,
“For ever is torn from my eyes.
“To me, how distracting the storm,
“That blasted the youth in his bloom!
“Alas! was so finish'd a form
“Design'd for so early a tomb?
“How bright were the prospects that shone!
“Their ruin 'tis mine to deplore—
“Health, beauty, and youth were his own;
“Health, beauty, and youth are no more.
“No blessings of nature and art,
“Nor music that charm'd in the song,
“Nor virtues that glow'd in the heart,
“Dear youth, could thy moments prolong!
“Thrice six times the spring had renew'd
“Its youth and its charms for the boy:
“With rapture all nature he view'd,
“For nature he knew to enjoy.
“But chiefly his country could charm:
“He felt—'twas a generous heat—
“With drums and the trumpet's alarm,
“His pulses in consonance beat.
“Ye heroes, to whom he was dear,
“Come weep o'er this sorrowful urn,
“Come ease the full heart with a tear—
“My hero will never return:
“He died in the dawn of applause,
“His country demanded his breath;
“Go, heroes, defend the same cause,
“Avenge, with your country, his death.”
195

So sung on the top of the rocks,
The virgin in sorrow more fair;
In tears her blue eyes; and her locks
Of auburn flew loose in the air.
I heard, as I pass'd down the stream;
The guards of the foe were in view:—
To enterprize fir'd by the theme,
I bade the sweet mourner adieu.
 

This young warrior was killed in the attack on the block-house, near Fort Lee, 1780.

AN EPITAPH. ALEXANDER SCAMMEL,

Adjutant-General of the American Armies, and Colonel of the first regiment of New-Hampshire, while he commanded a chosen corps of light infantry, at the successful siege of York-Town, in Virginia, was, in the gallant performance of his duty, as field officer of the day, unfortunately captured, and afterward insidiously wounded; of which wound he expired at Williamsburgh, October, 1781. Anno ætatis. ...

Though no kind angel glanc'd aside the ball,
Nor fed'ral arms pour'd vengeance for his fall:
Brave Scammel's fame, to distant regions known,
Shall last beyond this monumental stone,
Which conqu'ring armies (from their toils return'd)
Rear'd to his glory, while his fate they mourn'd.
196

A LETTER TO A YOUNG LADY IN BOSTON,

Dated at New-Haven, April, 1780.
Inspir'd with hope of giving pleasure,
By tale disastrous, told in measure;
I mean, dear miss, from facts diurnal,
To write a kind of sleighing journal;
And minute how I came across, back
From Pomfret to the Sound on horseback.
Suppose (to save the pain of parting)
Your friends (the trouble past of starting)
Far on their way—the muse will find us—
Our hearts, with you, as far behind us:—
No wonder, then, we soon were lost on
The roads that go direct from Boston,
And came, erroneous where they lead in,
From Brush-Hill down to Dedham-meeting;
From whence we turn'd our steeds to Wrentham,
And drove as if the devil sent 'em,
Till nine—nor made a single check first—
At nine, we stopp'd to take our breakfast.
Here I might use poetic fiction,
With all the tropes and flow'rs of diction,
To change (since flatt'ry half our trade is)
The tavern-girls to sky-born ladies:
Or give, in number new and rare,
With Homer's fire, a bill of fare;
Or turn, with Ovid's art bewitching,
To rooms of state, a bar or kitchen:
But facts, perhaps, by way of letter,
May shorter be express'd and better;
As, how the woman first denied us
A breakfast; how she scowl'd and eyed us;
And how we slily manag'd matters,
And coax'd the dame, and squeez'd the daughters;
Till breakfast serv'd, with kinder looks,
Left no pretext to kiss the cooks.
197

Our meal complete—'ere we departed,
We paid the club—then off we started—
But now the clouds began to low'r,
And threat of rain no drizzly show'r:
It dropp'd—we came to Attleborough—
The mist increas'd, as did our sorrow.
I cannot choose, with Homer's haste,
To say, “we snatch'd a short repast.”
We din'd, and spent an hour in reading
The news—from hence, through show'rs proceeding
To Providence—'ere it grew dark,
Your friend, the major, call'd on Clark,
Deliver'd your commands in form,
Then came to Rice's in the storm;
For now the storm, that long impended,
In downright cataracts descended.
Here I must take, for episodes,
Such as I find—by no means gods—
For here some half-score strangers met,
I never saw a stranger set:
Our pleasant scene may soon be sketch'd,
We stretch'd and yawn'd—then yawn'd and stretch'd.
With doubts (where one can clear the mystery)
I would not puzzle future history:
At dawn (the fact you might suppose)
We wak'd—got up—put on our clothes:
And then, to use our technics arch,
Again took up our line of march,
Through paths of snow, too thin and soft,
Our horses flounder'd deep and oft:
Sev'n miles we drove, not over fast,
And reach'd the eighth—the eighth and last—
Thou muse, oft call'd at latest shift,
To help poor bards at some dead lift;
Now, let thy succours not be scanted,
They ne'er can be more sadly wanted;
Come to our aid, thou muse of fire,
And drag us through the rhime and mire!
198

No vagrant wights, or true knights-errant,
E'er saw such perils, I dare warrant;
Not Homer's hero fac'd such dangers,
By land or sea, with friends or strangers;
Not Bunyan's pilgrim found such pond,
Quite badly wet in Slough Despond;
Nor Satan, in his various way, was
So plagued (as Milton sings) in chaos;
Nor ev'n the son of old Anchises
Was brought to such a fatal crisis,—
No Charon here, we found to ferry us
Over a villain lake, like Erebus.
The dismal vale we now 'gan enter,
And down we plung'd towards the centre—
Above mid-sides the horses slump in,
Nor stir a step, except by jumping—
Again they plunge—and here full sadly
For our poor driver, honest Bradley,
The pole snapp'd short—then quickly falling,
It went down, with the horses, all in—
The worst of scrapes to make the best on,
And raise the pole, was now the question—
Bradley (hence nam'd the lion-hearted)
His utmost skill and strength exerted:
While poles we placed across the slough,
And got it out—the Lord knows how—
Then, many a fruitless effort tried,
We reach'd, half drown'd, the other side.
The muse invok'd, who sat on bench,
In guise most like a mortal wench,
In our misfortunes wet her wings,
And therefore soars not, though she sings:
That muse, no doubt, with little striving,
Might learn the true sublime of diving;
Ev'n now she tells, how, thick and faster,
Disaster crowded on disaster;
To reach a house how hard we work'd,
The horses mir'd, and tir'd, and cork'd,
Till neighbours came, with kind assistance,
And drew the sleigh, by hand, some distance.
199

As when a sailor, long the sport
Of winds and waves, arrives in port,
He joys, although the vessel's stranded,
To find himself alive and landed:
Not less our glee, nor less our courage,
To find a cot, where we found porridge;
And where three days ourselves we found,
(To try our patience) weather bound.
Each plan to move in council stated,
Was pass'd—rejected—re-debated.
Here one might fall to moralizing
Upon some theme which most seem wise in:
Ye, who for human nature stickle,
Come learn that man is frail and fickle,
The sport, or bubble altogether,
Of fire and water, wind and weather!
It now grew cold—the path was frozen,
To part the hour of midnight chosen—
Our matters all, at length, adjusted,
Th' event to Providence we trusted.
The rubs and jostlings of that night,
Were more by half than I shall write:
Can things like these in rhime be written!
How by a dog my friend was bitten;
How Bradley tore a piece of skin,
Like paper dollar, from his shin;
And how your bard, 'ere he was seated,
His better finger dislocated;
How heavily the horses drew
The sleigh; and how they dragg'd it through
A mire—from whence (remains no doubt)
The very bottom had dropp'd out;
And lastly, how, to make us fret,
The sleigh was fairly overset;
Beset with ills, we rode by moon-light,
Till that was gone—and then 'twas soon light.
The sun, to our new world now present,
Brought on the day benign and pleasant;
200

The day, by milder fates attended,
Our plagues at Gen'ral Putnam's ended.
That chief, though ill, receiv'd our party
With joy, and gave us welcome hearty:
The good old man, of death not fearful,
Retain'd his mind and temper cheerful;
Retain'd (with palsey sorely smitten)
His love of country, pique for Britain:
He told of many a deed and skirmish,
That basis for romance might furnish;
The story of his wars and woes
Which I shall write in humble prose,
Should heav'n (that fondest schemes can mar)
Protract my years beyond this war.
Thus end the toil and picture frightful
Of sleighing—oft a sport delightful—
A sport, which all our lads and lasses
Agree each other sport surpasses,
When, crossing bridges in that vehicle,
They taste of kisses sweet as treacle.
To Hartford next, with whip and spur, hence
I came—nor met one ill occurrence—
There Wadsworth's hospitable dome
Receiv'd me: 'twas a second home.
Some days elaps'd, I jogg'd quite brave on,
And found my Trumbull at New-Haven;
Than whom, more humour never man did
Possess—nor lives a soul more candid—
But who, unsung, would know hereafter,
The repartees, and peals of laughter,
Or how much glee those laughters yield one,
Maugre the system Chesterfieldian!
Barlow I saw, and here began
My friendship for that spotless man;
Whom, though the world does not yet know it,
Great nature form'd her loftiest poet.
But Dwight was absent at North-Hampton,
That bard sublime, and virtue's champion;
To whom the charms of verse belong,
The father of our epic song!
201

My morn of life here haply past,
With youths of genius, science, taste:
But 'mid the roar of drums and guns,
Where meet again the muse's sons?
The mental banquet must they quit,
The feast of reason and of wit;
For ever lost, in civil strife,
That solace sweet of human life!
The cannon's distant thunders ring,
And wake to deeds of death the spring:
Far other sounds once touch'd my ear,
And usher'd in the flow'ry year:
But, now, adieu the tuneful train,
The warblings of my native plain;
Adieu the scenes that charm'd my view;
And thou, fair maid, again adieu!
Farewell the bow'rs and conscious shades!—
My country's cause my soul invades—
Yes, rous'd by sense of country's wrongs,
I give the wind my idle songs:
No vacant hour for rhyme succeeds,
I go where'er the battle bleeds:
To-morrow—(brief then be my story)—
I go to Washington and GLORY;
His Aid-de-Camp—in acts when tried—
Resolv'd (whatever fates betide)
My conduct, till my final breath,
Shall not disgrace my life or death.
 

Major D. Putnam, an Aid-de-Camp to Major-General Putnam, as was the author.

202

AN EPITHALAMIUM.

[_]

This poem and the poem by Dryden on which it is based appear in parallel versions in the source text. They appear here sequentially.

I.

'Twas at the wedding-feast, for Celia won,
By Cymon's coxcomb son!
Aloft in dwarfish state
The foplike bridegroom sat,
And made a deal of fun!
His gallant peers around were plac'd,
Their hair all curl'd and dress'd in newest taste:
(Of powder what prodigious waste!)
The simp'ring Celia by his side,
His lace and gewgaws fondly ey'd,
And swell'd her little heart with pride.
Proper, proper, proper pair!
None but a rake,
None but a rake
Such pains would take to gain a fickle fair.

II.

Mungo was there, and did well,
And led the cap'ring choir;
With fumbling fingers twang'd the fiddle:
The notes awake the am'rous fire,
And drinking joys inspire.
The song began of beaux,
And whence the order rose;
(Such wond'rous things a fiddler knows)
A monkey's grinning form in utmost vigour,
Bely'd a macaroni's noble figure;
When he to fair Coquetta prest,
A while he sought her snowy breast;
Then round her slender waist he curl'd,
And stamp'd an image of himself, a coxcomb of the world.
A present fop! they shot around;
A present fop! the vaulted roofs rebound:
With ravish'd ears,
The fopling hears;
Assumes the shape,
Looks like an ape,
And grins, and laughs, and sneers.
204

III.

The praise of Bacchus then the thirsty fiddler sung;
Of Bacchus, ever plump and ever young:
The jolly god to wedding comes;
Sound the trumpets, beat the drums:
Flush'd with a purple nose,
His pimpled face he shows.
Now give the boy a dram. He comes, he comes!
Bacchus! plump and merry younker,
Makes the wedding-folks get drunker;
Bacchus taught to toast the lasses;
Tippling ev'ry joy surpasses,
Rich the treasure,
Sweet the pleasure,
After drinking to break glasses.

IV.

Sooth'd with the sound, the fop grew vain,
Talk'd all his courtship o'er again,
And thrice he kiss'd the girls all round, and thrice they fled amain.
The fiddler saw the mischief rise,
His yawning mouth, his maudlin eyes;
And while he sense and song defied,
Chang'd his hand, and strok'd the bride.
He chose a doleful ditty,
To work him up to pity:
He sung poor Damon's cruel wrongs,
By too severe a fate,
Banish'd, banish'd, banish'd, banish'd,
Banish'd for his small estate,
And writing mournful songs:
Deserted, at his utmost need,
By all Apollo's tuneful breed;
On an old feather-bed he lies,
Nor dullness self will close his eyes:
With stupid stare the joyless fopling sat,
Revolving in his alter'd soul,
The various turns of fate and fun;
And now and then a drink he stole,
And streams began to run.

V.

The mighty fiddler smil'd to see
That love was in the next degree:
To touch that string was little labour,
For love to pity is next neighbour.
206

Softly sweet he tun'd his fiddle,
Soon it sounded, tiddle, diddle.
Trade, he sung, is toil and trouble;
Money but an empty bubble;
Constant hurry, still beginning,
Constant cheating, never ending;
If a fortune's worth thy winning,
Think, oh think it worth thy spending!
Lovely Celia sits beside thee;
Drink about, and luck betide thee.
The many rend the bowls with loud applause;
So love was crown'd, but liquor won the cause.
The fop, grown addled in his noddle,
Gaz'd on his bride,
And then his bottle,
And sigh'd and look'd, sigh'd and look'd,
Sigh'd and look'd, and look'd and sigh'd.
At length for love, and drinking more unable,
The tipsy bridegroom fell beneath the table.

VI.

Now tug the wooden lyre again:
A harder yet, and yet a harder strain.
Let scolding break his sleep asunder,
And start him, like a rattling peal of thunder.
Hark, hark, Xantippe's fable
Has rais'd up his head,
As awak'd from the dead,
And he peeps out from under the table.
Revenge, revenge, dark Mungo cries,
See the cuckolds arise!
See the horns that they rear,
How they look in their hair,
And the tears that roll down from their eyes!
Behold the hen-peck'd band,
In ghostly terrors stand!
These are husbands whose couches have met with a stain;
Whose wives still remain,
Unconcern'd with their pain:
Give the vengeance due,
To the cuckold crew.
Behold how they toss their foreheads up higher,
How they point to the bed-rooms around,
And warn ev'ry pair to retire:
The cronies applaud with a Bacchanal sound:
208

And each in a rapture laid hold on his Helen:
The way fair Celia led,
To light the bucks to bed;
The rest is scarce worth telling.

VII.

Thus long ago,
Ere younger Cymon's horns began to grow,
While Celia's tongue lay still,
Dark Mungo show'd prodigious skill,
Both as a singer,
And when he touch'd his lyre with heavy thumb and finger.
But when the shrill-voic'd Celia came,
And tun'd to rage her vocal frame;
The gifted scold from her unborrow'd store,
Enlarg'd the former narrow bounds,
And added length to jarring sounds
With nature's mother-wit, and screams unknown before.
Let Mungo, if he's able,
Do more—or yield the wreath—
He stretch'd a fop beneath the table,
She scolded him to death.
203

ALEXANDER's FEAST, OR THE POWER OF MUSIC:

An Ode in honour of St. Cecilia's Day. By Mr. Dryden.

I.

'Twas at the royal feast for Persia won,
By Philip's warlike son:
Aloft in awful state
The godlike hero sat
On his imperial throne.
His valiant peers were plac'd around,
Their brows with roses and with myrtles bound;
(So should desert in arms be crown'd,)
The lovely Thais by his side,
Sat like a blooming eastern bride,
In flow'r of youth and beauty's pride.
Happy, happy, happy pair!
None but the brave,
None but the brave,
None but the brave deserves the fair.

II.

Timotheus plac'd on high,
Amid the tuneful choir,
With flying fingers touch'd the lyre;
The trembling notes ascend the sky,
And heav'nly joys inspire.
The song began from Jove,
Who left his blissful seat above;
(Such is the pow'r of mighty love)
A dragon's fiery form bely'd the god;
Sublime on radiant spires he rode,
When he to fair Olympia prest,
A while he sought her snowy breast;
Then round her slender waist he curl'd,
And stamp'd an image of himself, a sov'reign of the world.
A present deity! they shout around;
A present deity! the vaulted roofs rebound:
With ravish'd ears
The monarch hears;
Assumes the god,
Affects to nod,
And seems to shake the spheres.
205

III.

The praise of Bacchus then the sweet musician sung:
Of Bacchus, ever fair and ever young:
The jolly god in triumph comes;
Sound the trumpets, beat the drums:
Flush'd with a purple grace,
He shows his honest face.
Now give the hautboys breath. He comes, he comes!
Bacchus! ever fair and young,
Drinking joys did first ordain;
Bacchus' blessings are a treasure;
Drinking is the soldier's pleasure:
Rich the treasure,
Sweet the pleasure,
Sweet is pleasure after pain.

IV.

Sooth'd with the sound, the king grew vain,
Fought all his battles o'er again,
And thrice he routed all his foes, and thrice he slew the slain.
The master saw the madness rise,
His glowing cheeks, his ardent eyes;
And while he heav'n and earth defy'd,
Chang'd his hand, and check'd his pride.
He chose a mournful muse,
Soft pity to infuse;
He sung Darius, great and good!
By too severe a fate,
Fallen, fallen, fallen, fallen,
Fallen from his high estate,
And welt'ring in his blood:
Deserted at his utmost need,
By those his former bounty fed;
On the bare earth expos'd he lies,
Without a friend to close his eyes.
With downcast looks the joyless victor sat,
Revolving in his alter'd soul,
The various turns of chance below;
And now and then a sigh he stole,
And tears began to flow.

V.

The mighty master smil'd to see
That love was in the next degree;
'Twas but a kindred sound to move,
For pity melts the mind to love.
207

Softly sweet, in Lydian measures,
Soon he sooth'd his soul to pleasures.
War, he sung, is toil and trouble;
Honour but an empty bubble;
Never ending, still beginning,
Fighting still, and still destroying;
If the world be worth thy winning,
Think, O think it worth enjoying!
Lovely Thais sits beside thee;
Take the good the gods provide thee.
The many rend the skies with loud applause,
So love was crown'd, but music won the cause.
The prince, unable to conceal his pain,
Gaz'd on his fair,
Who caus'd his care,
And sigh'd and look'd, sigh'd and look'd,
Sigh'd and look'd, and sigh'd again.
At length, with love and wine at once opprest,
The vanquish'd victor sunk upon her breast.

VI.

Now strike the golden lyre again,
A louder yet, and yet a louder strain.
Break his bands of sleep asunder,
And rouse him, like a rattling peal of thunder.
Hark, hark the horrid sound
Has rais'd up his head,
As awak'd from the dead,
And amaz'd he stares around.
Revenge, revenge! Timotheus cries,
See the furies arise!
See the snakes that they rear,
How they hiss in their hair!
And the sparkles that flash from their eyes!
Behold a ghostly band,
Each a torch in his hand!
These are Grecian ghosts that in battle were slain.
Whose bodies remain
Unburied on the plain:
Give the vengeance due,
To the valiant crew.
Behold how they toss their torches on high,
How they point to the Persian abodes,
And glittering temples of their hostile gods.
The princes applaud with a furious joy,
209

And the king seiz'd a flambeau with zeal to destroy;
Thais led the way,
To light him to his prey,
And like another Helen, fir'd another Troy.

VII.

Thus long ago,
Ere heaving bellows learn'd to blow,
While organs yet were mute;
Timotheus with his breathing flute,
And sounding lyre,
Could swell the soul to rage, or kindle soft desire.
But when divine Cecilia came,
Inventress of the vocal frame,
The sweet enthusiast, from her sacred store,
Enlarg'd the former narrow bounds,
And added length to solemn sounds,
With nature's mother-wit, and arts unknown before.
Let old Timotheus yield the prize,
Or both divide the crown;
He rais'd a mortal to the skies,
She drew an angel down.
210

AN IMPROMPTU.

May you, fraught with ev'ry grace,
All the charms of mind and face,
Ripen fair in wisdom's beam;
Thine the bliss that poets dream.
Happier still thy prospects shine,
And each wish fulfill'd be thine!
Riches make them wings and fly;
Envy blasts the buds of joy;
Deadly pangs may youth invade,
When the rosy cheek must fade;
Only virtue can impart
Our defence—it soothes the heart,
Death disarms, or blunts his dart.
 

Addressed to a young lady about to embark for Europe, who desired to have some manuscript verses written by the author. Her name will be discovered in them.

AN ODE.

ADDRESSED TO LAURA.
Oh, lovely Laura! may a youth,
Inspir'd by beauty, urg'd by truth,
Disclose the heart's alarms,
The fire in youthful blood that glows,
Th' impassion'd pang on love that grown,
And dare to sing thy charms!
Enough with war my lay has rung;
A softer theme awakes my tongue;
'Tis beauty's force divine;
Can I resist that air, that grace,
The charms of motion, figure, face?
For ev'ry charm is thine.
211

Of health, of youth, th' expanding flush,
Of virgin fear the flying blush,
Distain thy lily cheek:
The bee such nectar never sips,
As yields the rose-bud of thy lips,
Thy lips that sweetly speak.
'Tis thine the heaviest heart to cheer,
Those accents caught with eager ear,
So musically roll:
While swells the breast, the snow-white skin
Scarce hides the secret thoughts within,
Nor needs disguise that soul.
Where down thy waist, and o'er thy breast,
In light brown ringlets neatly drest,
Devolves thy beauteous hair:
Eager I gaze—and, gazing, dream
Of halcyon days; while on me beam
Those blue-eyes, mild and fair.
Unblam'd, oh let me gaze and gaze,
While love-sick fancy fondly strays,
And feasts on many a kiss;—
For us let tides of rapture roll,
Thus intermingling soul with soul,
In ecstacies of bliss!

AN EPISTLE TO DR. DWIGHT.

On board the Courier de l'Europe, July 30, 1784.
From the wide wat'ry waste, where nought but skies
And mingling waves salute the aching eyes;
Where the same moving circle bounds the view,
And paints with vap'ry tints the billows blue;
To thee, my early friend! to thee, dear Dwight!
Fond recollection turns, while thus I write;
212

While I reflect, no change of time or place,
Th' impressions of our friendship can efface—
Nor peace or war—though chang'd for us the scene—
Though mountains rise, or oceans roll between—
Too deep that sacred passion was imprest
On my young heart—too deep it mark'd your breast—
Your breast, which asks the feelings of your friend,
What chance betides him, or what toils attend?
Then hear the muse, in sea-born numbers tell
In mind how cheerful, and in health how well;
And ev'n that muse will deign to let you know
What things concur to make and keep him so.—
We go, protected by supernal care,
With cloudless skies, and suns serenely fair;
While o'er th' unruffled main the gentle gale
Consenting breathes, and fills each swelling sail;
Conscious of safety in the self-same hand,
Which guides us on the ocean or the land.
Of thee, fair bark! the muse prophetic sings,
“Europe's swift Messenger! expand thy wings,
“Rear thy tall masts, extend thine ample arms,
“Catch the light breeze, nor dread impending harms—
“Full oft shalt thou—if aught the muse avails—
“Wing the broad deep with such delightful gales;
“Full oft to either world announce glad news,
“Of allied realms promote the friendly views;
“So shall each distant age assert thy claim,
“And Europe's Messenger be known to fame!”
What though this plain, so uniform and vast,
Illimitably spreads its dreary waste;
What though no isles, nor vales, nor hills, nor groves,
Meet the tir'd eye that round th' horizon roves;
Yet, still collected in a narrow bound,
Ten thousand little pleasures may be found.—
Here we enjoy accommodations good,
With pleasant liquors, and well-flavour'd food;
Meats nicely fatten'd in Columbian fields,
And luscious wines, that Gallia's vintage yields,
On which you bards ('twas so in former days)
Might feast your wit, and lavish all your praise.
213

Within our ship, well-furnish'd, roomy, clean,
Come see the uses of each diff'rent scene—
Far in the prow, for culinary use,
Fires, not poetic, much good cheer produce;
The ovens there our daily bread afford,
And thence the viands load our plenteous board.
See various landscapes shade our dining hall,
Where mimic nature wantons round the wall;
There no vain pomp appears—there all is neat—
And there cool zephyrs, fanning as we eat,
Avert the fervours of the noon-tide ray,
And give the mildness of the vernal day.
See the great cabin nigh, its doors unfold,
Show fleeting forms from mirrors fix'd in gold!
O'er painted ceilings brighter prospects rise,
And rural scenes again delight our eyes—
There oft from converse or from social sports,
We drink delight less dash'd than that of courts.
But when more sober cares the hour requires,
Each to his cell of solitude retires;
His bed—his books—his paper, pen and ink—
Present the choice, to rest, to read, or think.
Yet what would all avail to prompt the smile,
Cheer the sad breast, or the dull hour beguile;
If well-bred passengers, discreet and free,
Were not at hand to mix in social glee?
Such my companions—such the muse shall tell,
Him first, whom once you knew in war full well,
Our Polish friend, whose name still sounds so hard,
To make it rhyme would puzzle any bard;
That youth, whose bays and laurels early crown'd,
For virtue, science, arts and arms renown'd!
Next him, behold, to grace our wat'ry scene,
An honest German lifts his gen'rous mein;
Him Carolina sends to Europe's shore,
Canals and inland waters to explore;
From thence return'd, she hopes to see her tide,
In commerce rich, through ampler channels glide.
214

Next comes the bleak Quebec's well-natur'd son:
And last our naval chief, the friend of fun,
Whose plain, frank manners, form'd on fickle seas,
Are cheerful still, and always aim to please:
Nor less the other chiefs their zeal display,
To make us happy as themselves are gay.
Sever'd from all society but this,
Half way from either world we plough th' abyss;
Save the small sea-bird, and the fish that flies
On yon blue waves, no object meets my eyes.—
Nor has th' insidious hook, with lures, beguil'd
Of peopled ocean scarce a single child—
Yet luckless Dolphin, erst to Arion true,
Nought could avail thy beauteous, transient hue,
As o'er the deck, in dying pang you roll'd,
Wrapp'd in gay rainbows and pellucid gold.
Now see that wand'rer bird, fatigu'd with flight
O'er many a wat'ry league, is forc'd to light
High on the mast—the bird our seamen take,
Though scar'd, too tir'd its refuge to forsake:
Fear not sweet bird, nor judge our motives ill,
No barb'rous man now means thy blood to spill,
Or hold thee cag'd—soon as we reach the shore
Free shalt thou fly, and gaily sing and soar!
Another grateful sight now cheers the eye,
At first a snow-white spot in yon clear sky;
Then through the optic tube a ship appears,
And now distinct athwart the billows veers:
Daughter of ocean, made to bless mankind!
Go, range wide waters on the wings of wind—
With friendly intercourse far climes explore,
Their produce barter, and increase their store—
Ne'er saw my eyes so fair a pageant swim,
As thou appear'st, in all thy gallant trim!
Amus'd with trivial things, reclin'd at ease,
While the swift bark divides the summer seas,
215

Your bard (for past neglects to make amends)
Now writes to you—anon to other friends.—
Anon the scene, in Europe's polish'd climes,
Will give new themes for philosophic rhymes,
Ope broader fields for reason to explore,
Improvements vast of scientific lore!
Through nations blest with peace, but strong in arms,
Refin'd in arts, and apt for social charms,
Your friend will stray, and strive with studious care
To mark whate'er is useful, great, or rare;
Search the small shades of manners in their lives,
What policy prevails, how commerce thrives;
How morals form of happiness the base,
How others differ from Columbia's race;
And, gleaning knowledge from the realms he rov'd,
Bring home a patriot heart, enlarg'd, improv'd.
 

General Kosciuszko.

Colonel Se[illeg.]f.

Ille sedet, citharamque tenet, pretiumque vehendi
Canta, et æquoreus carmine mulcet aquas.
Ovid. Fa[illeg.]
222

THE SHEPHERD:

A SONG. Translated from the French.

“It rains, it rains, my fair,
Come drive your white sheep fast:
To shelter quick repair,
Haste, shepherdess, make haste.
I hear—the water pours,
With patt'ring on the vines:
See here! see here! it lours—
See there the lightning shines.
The thunder dost thou hear?
Loud roars the rushing storm:
Take (while we run, my dear)
Protection from my arm.
I see our cot, ah hold!
Mamma and sister Nance,
To open our sheep-fold,
Most cheerily advance.
God bless my mother dear,
My sister Nancy too!
I bring my sweet-heart here,
To sleep to-night with you.
Go, dry yourself, my friend,
And make yourself at home—
Sister, on her attend:
Come in, sweet lambkins, come.—
Mamma, let's take good care
Of all her pretty sheep;
Her little lamb we'll spare
More straw whereon to sleep.
223

MOUNT-VERNON.

'Tis done—now let us haste
To her;—you here, my fair!
Undress'd, oh what a waist!
My mother, look you there.
Let's sup; come take this place,
You shall be next to me;
This pine-knot's cheerful blaze
Shall shine direct on thee.
Come taste this cream so sweet,
This syllabub so warm;
Alas! you do not eat:
You feel e'en yet the storm.
'Twas wrong—I press'd too much
Your steps, when on the way:
But here, see here your couch—
There sleep till dawn of day,
With gold the mountain tips:—
Good night, good night, my dove!
Now let me on your lips
Imprint one kiss of love.
Mamma and I will come,
As soon as morn shall shine,
To see my sweet-heart home,
And ask her hand for mine.”

MOUNT-VERNON:

AN ODE.

By broad Potowmack's azure tide,
Where Vernon's mount, in sylvan pride,
Displays its beauties far,
Great Washington, to peaceful shades,
Where no unhallow'd wish invades,
Retir'd from fields of war.
224

Angels might see, with joy, the sage,
Who taught the battle where to rage,
Or quench'd its spreading flame,
On works of peace employ that hand,
Which wav'd the blade of high command,
And hew'd the path to fame.
Let others sing his deeds in arms,
A nation sav'd, and conquest's charms:
Posterity shall hear,
'Twas mine, return'd from Europe's courts,
To share his thoughts, partake his sports,
And sooth his partial ear.
To thee, my friend, these lays belong:
Thy happy seat inspires my song,
With gay, perennial blooms,
With fruitage fair, and cool retreats,
Whose bow'ry wilderness of sweets
The ambient air perfumes.
Here spring its earliest buds displays,
Here latest on the leafless sprays
The plumy people sing;
The vernal show'r, the rip'ning year,
Th' autumnal store, the winter drear,
For thee new pleasures bring.
Here lapp'd in philosophic ease,
Within thy walks, beneath thy trees,
Amidst thine ample farms,
No vulgar converse heroes hold,
But past or future scenes unfold,
Or dwell on nature's charms.
What wond'rous æra have we seen,
Plac'd on this isthmus, half between
A rude and polish'd state!
We saw the war tempestuous rise,
In arms a world, in blood the skies,
In doubt an empire's fate.
The storm is calm'd, seren'd the heav'n,
And mildly o'er the climes of ev'n
Expands th' imperial day:
225

“O God, the source of light supreme,
“Shed on our dusky morn a gleam,
“To guide our doubtful way!
“Restrain, dread Pow'r, our land from crimes!
“What seeks, though blest beyond all times,
“So querulous an age?
“What means to freedom such disgust;
“Of change, of anarchy the lust,
“The fickleness and rage?”
So spake his country's friend, with sighs,
To find that country still despise
The legacy he gave—
And half he fear'd his toils were vain,
And much that man would court a chain,
And live through vice a slave.
A transient gloom o'ercast his mind:
Yet, still on providence reclin'd,
The patriot fond believ'd,
That pow'r benign too much had done,
To leave an empire's task begun,
Imperfectly achiev'd.
Thus buoy'd with hope, with virtue blest,
Of ev'ry human bliss possess'd,
He meets the happier hours:
His skies assume a lovelier blue,
His prospects brighter rise to view,
And fairer bloom his flow'rs.
 

Written at Mount-Vernon, August, 1786.

THE GENIUS OF AMERICA.

A SONG. Tune—The Watery God, &c.

Where spirits dwell, and shad'wy forms,
On Andes' cliffs, 'mid black'ning storms,
With livid lightnings curl'd;
226

The awful genius of our clime,
In thunder rais'd his voice sublime,
And hush'd the list'ning world.
“In lonely waves and wastes of earth,
“A mighty empire claims its birth,
“And heav'n asserts the claim;
“The sails that hang in yon dim sky,
“Proclaim the promis'd æra nigh,
“Which wakes a world to fame.
“Hail ye first bounding barks that roam,
“Blue tumbling billows topp'd with foam,
“Which keel ne'er plough'd before!
“Here suns perform their useless round,
“Here rove the naked tribes embrown'd,
“Who feed on living gore.
“To midnight orgies, off'ring dire,
“The human sacrifice on fire,
“A heav'nly light succeeds—
“But, lo! what horrors intervene,
“The toils severe, the carnag'd scene,
“And more than mortal deeds!
“Ye fathers, spread your fame afar,
“'Tis yours to still the sounds of war,
“And bid the slaughter cease;
“The peopling hamlets wide extend,
“The harvests spring, the spires ascend,
“'Mid grateful songs of peace.
“Shall steed to steed, and man to man,
“With discord thund'ring in the van,
“Again destroy the bliss?
“Enough my mystic words reveal,
“The rest the shades of night conceal
“In fate's profound abyss.”
 

Written during the insurrections in Massachusetts, in the year 1787.

227

THE MONKEY,

Who shaved himself and his Friends. A FABLE.

Addressed to the Hon. --- ---
A man who own'd a barber's shop
At York, and shav'd full many a fop,
A monkey kept for their amusement;
He made no other kind of use on't—
This monkey took great observation,
Was wonderful at imitation,
And all he saw the barber do,
He mimic'd straight, and did it too.
It chanc'd in shop, the dog and cat,
While friseur din'd, demurely sat,
Jacko found nought to play the knave in,
So thought he'd try his hand at shaving.
Around the shop in haste he rushes,
And gets the razors, soap, and brushes;
Now puss he fix'd (no muscle miss stirs)
And lather'd well her beard and whiskers,
Then gave a gash, as he began—
The cat cry'd “waugh!” and off she ran.
Next Towser's beard he try'd his skill in,
Though Towser seem'd somewhat unwilling:
As badly here again succeeding,
The dog runs howling round, and bleeding.
Nor yet was tir'd our roguish elf;
He'd seen the barber shave himself;
So by the glass, upon the table,
He rubs with soap his visage sable,
Then with left hand holds smooth his jaw,—
The razor in his dexter paw;
Around he flourishes and slashes,
Till all his face is seam'd with gashes.
His cheeks dispatch'd—his visage thin
He cock'd, to shave beneath his chin;
Drew razor swift as he could pull it,
And cut, from ear to ear, his gullet.
228

MORAL.
Who cannot write, yet handle pens,
Are apt to hurt themselves and friends.
Though others use them well, yet fools
Should never meddle with edge tools.

PROLOGUE TO THE WIDOW OF MALABAR:

A TRAGEDY.

Spoken by Mr. Hallam, at the Theatre in Philadelphia, May 7, 1790.
The Gallic muse, this night, prepares our tale,
And shows what rites in other lands prevail;
Displays the widow'd fair a sacrifice,
And draws compassion's drops from melting eyes.
Oh! if your hearts have ever learn'd to feel,
Let sweet compassion o'er your bosoms steal;
Believe the plot, from Eastern story, true,
Believe the shores of Malabar ye view.
The haughty Bramin, with imperious smile,
Propels the fair one to the fun'ral pile:
There—see her mounting, with retorted eyes,
And hear, 'midst bursting flames, her dying cries.
Such tragic strains the noblest charms dispense,
To purge the passions, and refine the sense:
Each virtuous tear confers a new-born grace,
And adds fresh beauty to the fairest face.—
Oh! born to bless, and meliorate mankind,
With manners winning, and with taste refin'd,
What wrongs, ye fair! your gentle bosoms bore,
In each rude age—on ev'ry barb'rous shore!
Doom'd the mean vassals of unfeeling lords,
By western savages, and Tartar hords!
Through Asian climes, see custom reason braves,
And marks the fairest of their sex for slaves:
229

Hearts form'd for love, but doom'd in vain to glow
In prison'd pomp, and weep in splendid woe:—
Or see their fate in India more severe,
The sad companions of a husband's bier!—
Not such their doom, where genial science shines,
And heav'n-born freedom human souls refines,
Where polish'd manners social life improve,
And teach us to respect the sex we love;
Confirm their claims in equal rights to share,
Friends in our bliss, and partners in our care:—
And hail, ye fair, of ev'ry charm possess'd—
Who grace this rising empire of the west;
With better fates, and nobler genius born,
Your sex to honour, and your land adorn;
In this blest age, to share our fond regard,
The friends of heroes, and their blest reward!—
Yet when o'er foreign woes ye shed a tear,
And find your bliss by contrast still more dear;
With humble joy adore th' Almighty hand,
Which fix'd your birth in this auspicious land!
Ye gen'rous patrons who protect our stage,
Friends to the arts, and guardians of the age;
To tragic woes now lend the list'ning ear,
Attend with candour, with indulgence hear!
While we display, in pleading nature's cause,
Our best attempts to merit your applause!

EPILOGUE TO THE WIDOW OF MALABAR.

Spoken by Mrs. Henry, in the Character of Lanissa.

Well, here I come—and almost out of breath,
'Twixt love, fire, fear, and widowhood and death;
While I for such fictitious strife am harness'd—
I feel—I suffer—more than half in earnest:
230

By Bramins' seiz'd—those bloody-minded fellows—
My hair-breadth 'scapes were greater than Othello's!
Nought could have sav'd me from the jaws of fate,
Had my French lover came one breath too late.—
The pile prepar'd and kindling brisk as tinder,
They'd burn'd your poor Lanissa to a cinder!
But well our author had contriv'd the whole,
And seems, in truth, a right good-natur'd soul:
He swears himself his drama, without vanity,
Is founded on the basis of humanity;
Without one RULE or UNITY infringing,
He sav'd his heroine from a mortal singing—
So after all this mighty fire and rattle,
Our bloodless play is like a bloodless battle.
Am I to blame, if, this dear life to save,
I lik'd a lover better than a grave;
Prefer'd your christian maxims for a drama,
To all the murd'rous rites of pagan Brama;
And held, retreating from my fun'ral urn,
“'Twas better far to marry than to burn?”
No—I'll be burn'd, but ev'ry maid and widow
Would do, in such a case, just as I did do.
Yes—thank your stars, Columbia's happy dames!
Ye need not fear those frightful fun'ral flames:—
Of other lands let foreign bards be dreaming,
But this, this only is the land for women:—
Here ye invert the Bramins' barb'rous plan,
And stretch your sceptre o'er the tyrant—man.
Ye men, if I offend, I ask your pardon,
I would not for the world your sex bear hard on.
Ye are the fathers, founders of a nation,
The gods on earth, the lords of this creation!
And let philosophers say what they please,
You're not grown less by coming o'er the seas:—
We know your worth, and dare proclaim your merit.—
The world may ask your foes, “if you want spirit?”
Your vict'ries won—your revolution ended—
Your constitution newly made—and mended—
Your fund of wit—your intellectual riches—
Plans in the closet—in the senate speeches—
231

Will make this age of heroes, wits, and sages,
The first in story to the latest ages!
Go on—and prosper with your projects blest,
Till your millennium rises in the west:—
We wish success to your politic scheming,
Rule ye the world!—and then—be rul'd by women!—
For here, ye fair, no servile rites bear sway,
Nor force ye—(though ye promise)—to obey:
Blest in the mildness of this temp'rate zone,
Slaves to no whims, or follies—but your own.—
Here custom, check'd in ev'ry rude excess,
Confines its influence to the arts of dress,
O'er charms eclips'd the side-long hat displays,
Extends the hoop, or pares away the stays,
Bedecks the fair with artificial geer,
Breast-works in front, and bishops in the rear:—
The idol rears, on beauty's dazzling throne,
Mankind her slaves, and all the world her own;
Bound by no laws a husband's whims to fear,
Obey in life, or burn upon his bier;
She views with equal eye, sublime o'er all,
A lover perish—or a lap-dog fall—
Coxcombs or monkeys from their chains broke loose—
And now a husband dead—and now a goose.
But jesting all apart—and such droll strictures;
We'll strive to charm you with still fairer pictures—
For 'tis our object to divert—not tease you—
To make you laugh or cry—as best shall please you—
So as it suits each kind spectator's turn,
You'll come to see me play the fool—or burn—
Ladies and gentlemen! on this condition,
I humbly offer my sincere petition,
That you'll come oft to hear me sing or say—
“And poor Lanissa will for ever pray.”
232

SONNETS.

[_]

There are remarkable periods and events, which may serve, figuratively speaking, as points of view, to guide the memory in retracing our wanderings through this world of vicissitudes and care. The times on which we have fallen, and the situations in which I have been placed, may have furnished, perhaps, an unusual number. Upon lately looking over my papers, I found a few Sonnets which recalled to recollection some of the feelings with which they were written. It is presumed, the dates and titles will generally point out what shall be sufficient to be known respecting these compositions, without illustration.

New-Haven, November, 1802.

SONNET I.

Addressed to my Friends at Yale College, on my leaving them to join the Army.
Adieu, thou Yale! where youthful poets dwell,
No more I linger by thy classic stream.
Inglorious case and sportive songs farewell!
Thou startling clarion! break the sleeper's dream!
And sing, ye bards! the war-inspiring theme.
Heard ye the din of battle? clang of arms?
Saw ye the steel 'mid starry banners beam?
Quick throbs my breast at war's untried alarms,
Unknown pulsations stirr'd by glory's charms.
While dear Columbia calls, no danger awes,
Though certain death to threaten'd chains be join'd.
Though fails this flesh devote to freodom's cause,
Can death subdue th' unconquerable mind?
Or adamantine chains ethereal substance bind?
233

SONNET II.

ON THE REVOLUTIONARY WAR IN AMERICA.

When civil war awak'd his wrathful fire,
I saw the Britons' burnings stain the sky;
I saw the combat rage with ruthless ire,
Welt'ring in gore the dead and dying lye!
How devastation crimson'd on my eye,
When swoon'd the frighten'd maid; the matron fled
And wept her missing child with thrilling cry;
Old men on staves, and sick men from their bed
Crept, while the foe the conflagration sped!
So broods, in upper skies, that tempest dire,
Whence fiercer heat these elements shall warm;
What time, in robes of blood and locks of fire,
Th' exterminating angel's awful form
Blows the grave-rending blast, and guides the redd'ning storm.

SONNET III.

ON THE PROSPECT OF PEACE, IN 1783.

From worlds of bliss, above the solar bounds,
Thou, Peace! descending in these skirts of day,
Bring heav'nly balm to heal my country's wounds,
Joy to my soul, and transport to my lay!
Too long the cannon, 'mid the grim array
Of charging hosts, insufferably roar'd;
When rose th' Almighty pow'r, with sovereign sway,
To end the battle mutual inroads gor'd,
Spare squander'd blood, and sheath the wearied sword.
Now bids that voice divine th' invaders yield,
From glooms of midnight morn's gay prospects rise:
There, see the dawn of heav'n's great day reveal'd,
Where new auroras dim our dazzled eyes,
Flash o'er th' Atlantic waves, and fire the western skies!
234

SONNET IV.

ON DISBANDING THE ARMY.

Ye brave Columbian bands! a long farewell!
Well have ye fought for freedom—nobly done
Your martial task—the meed immortal won—
And time's last records shall your triumphs tell.
Once friendship made their cup of suff'rings sweet—
The dregs how bitter now those bands must part!
Ah! never, never more on earth to meet:
Distill'd from gall that inundates the heart,
What tears from heroes' eyes are seen to start!
Ye, too, farewell, who fell in fields of gore,
And chang'd tempestuous toil for rest serene;
Soon shall we join you on the peaceful shore,
(Though gulfs irremeable roll between)
Thither by death-tides borne, as ye full soon have been.
 

It will be difficult for any person who was not present with the troops at the conclusion of the war, to form an adequate idea of the affecting circumstances which attended the disbanding of the army.

SONNET V.

ON LIFE.

Ere we can think of time—the moment's past—
And straight another since that thought began:
So swift each instant mingles with the last,
The flying now exists—no more for man.
With consciousness suspended ev'n by sleep,
To what this phantom, life, then likest seems?
Say, thou! whose doubtful being (lost in dreams)
Allows the wilder'd but to wake and weep,
So thoughtless hurried to th' eternal deep!
'Tis like a moon-light vision's airy shade,
A bubble driving down the deep beneath—
Then, ere the bubble burst, the vision fade,
Dissolv'd in air this evanescent breath!
Let man, not mortal, learn true life begins at death.
 

With the Deity, past, present, and future, (as they respect man, who recognizes the pares of duration by succession) are the same.

235

SONNET VI.

ON A NIGHT-STORM AT SEA.

Heav'n's! what a sight my startled eyes behold!
'Mid peals of thunder how the lightnings play!
Now dark'ning clouds, in dire confusion roll'd,
Hide the last glimm'rings of departed day.
Now night in tenfold gloom begins her reign;
Wild bounds our bark with all her canvass furl'd.
How howls the madd'ning wind along the main,
The breaking billows o'er the topmast hurl'd,
And fearful yawns, by fits, th' unfathom'd world!
Oh, thou! whom not the heav'n of heav'ns contains,
Who oft has sav'd me from the wat'ry grave,
And leaden deaths that cours'd the crimson plains;
Thy arm Omnipotent extend to save,
Oh, speed the halcyon dawn and still the stormy wave.
 

The two Sonnets, on a storm and calm at sea, were composed on board the brig Sophia, a dispatch vessel of the United States, purchased by the American government to carry the author to Europe in 1795.

SONNET VII.

On a calm Morning which succeeded a Night-Storm at Sea.

That pow'r, whose voice from Chaos' vast inane
Call'd this fair orb, when sang the sister-stars,
Hath lull'd the tumult of the madden'd main,
And hush'd the rage of elemental wars.
Where rav'd the tempest—yields the blast of night
To matin gales that smooth the liquid way,—
And orient morn, in beams of beauty bright,
Awakes the rapture of the hymning lay,
Thy tribute due, eternal source of day!
Where night more dismal dwells, with gladd'ning light
So will a day-star spring; to cheer the gloom
Where chills of death the buds of being blight;
To wake the sleeping tenants of the tomb,
And make their faded forms in youth immortal bloom.
236

SONNET VIII.

ON THE IMMORTALITY OF THE SOUL.

My Heav'n-born soul! by body unconfin'd,
Leave that low tenement, and roam abroad;
Forestall the time, when, left each clog behind,
Thy flight shall mount where never mortal trod.
Ev'n now, methinks, upborne in tranced dreams,
The disencumber'd essence tries its wings;
Sees better planets, basks in brighter beams,
To purer sight mysterious symbols brings,
Of unconceiv'd, unutterable things.
Though dust return'd to dust the worms devour,
Thee, can dread death annihilate or bind?
There, king of terrors! stops thy dreaded pow'r;
The bright assurgent from all dross refin'd,
High o'er th' immense of space regains the world of mind.

SONNET IX.

On the Death of Major John Pallsgrave Wyllys.

Belov'd in life! and mourn'd in death! when slain,
Where flow'd the sanguine flood of savage war—
Where white with red men mingling press'd the plain,
Thy bones long bleaching in lone fields afar:
Thee, Wyllys! thee, the sighing winds deplore,
Through wilds where axe-men erst no branch had fell'd:
Still mourns for thee, Ohio's peopling shore,
His groves (where late the painted warriors yell'd)
Vocal with grief, with tears his waters swell'd.
No friend was nigh to lave thy clotted wound,
Catch thy last breath, and close thy bursting eyes;
Yet thee full cities wail in woe profound—
Thy friends, thy sire, beyond funereal cries,
Stifle in dumb despair abortive groans and sighs.—
 

The aboriginal inhabitants of America denominate the Europeans the pale, and themselves the red flesh.

237

SONNET X.

On the Murders committed by the Jacobin Faction in the early Period of the French Revolution.

When heads by guillotines all ghastly fell,
As, mad for gore, o'er Gaul a faction hung;
Then giant Terror toll'd his nightly knell,
Wide on the winds the sounds of murder flung!
With agonizing shrieks each prison rung—
Nor yet the tocsin ceas'd its louder roar,
But every time it undulating swung,
Cold horror froze through every shivering pore,
For victims doom'd to view the dawn no more.
Those blood-stain'd Jacobins in turn shall fall,
Murd'rers of millions under freedom's name!
But not the blood that delug'd frantic Gaul,
In calm Columbia quenches reason's flame,
Or blots with bloody slur our fair Republic's fame.

SONNET XI.

Addressed to his Royal Highness the Prince of Brazil, on my taking leave of the Court of Lisbon, July, 1797.

Farewell ye flow'ry fields! where nature's hand
Profusely sheds her vegetable store,
Nurtur'd by genial suns and zephyrs bland!
Farewell thou Tagus! and thy friendly shore:
Long shall my soul thy lost retreats deplore,
Thy haunts where shades of heroes met my eyes—
As oft I mus'd where Camoëns trod before,
I saw the godlike form of Gama rise,
With chiefs renown'd beneath yon eastern skies.
Oh, long may peace and glory crown thy scene—
Farewell, just Prince! no sycophantic lay
Insults thy ear—be what thy sires have been,
Thy great progenitors! who op'd the way
Through seas unsail'd before to climes of orient day.
 

This Sonnet was translated into Portuguese verse by the Marshall-General, and Commander in Chief, Duke de Alafoens, the uncle of the Queen of Portugal.

338

SONNET XII.

On receiving the News of the Death of General Washington .

Hark! friends! what sobs of sorrow, moans of grief,
On every gale, through every region spread!
Hark! how the western world bewails our chief,
Great Washington, his country's father dead!
Our living light expiring with his breath,
His bright example still illumes our way
Through the dark valley of thy shadow, death!
To realms on high of life without decay,
Faint, he relied on heav'nly help alone,
While conscience cheer'd th' inevitable hour;
When fades the glare of grandeur, pomp of pow'r,
And all the pageantry that gems a throne:
Then from his hallow'd track, who shall entice
Columbia's sons to tread the paths of vice?

FAREWELL, FROM THE ABBE O'MOORE, ADDRESSED TO THE HONOURABLE DAVID HUMPHREYS,

Minister Plenipotentiary of the United States of America, at the Court of Madrid.

Thee, Humphreys! I address, since ev'n thy name
Can in cold bosoms light a poet's flame;
And well it suits an humble muse like mine,
Prostrate to own the dignity of thine.
This day each maid that haunts the sacred spring,
Salutes the infant year from every string;
Save mine, who lonely vales and woods among,
Her hair dishevell'd and her harp unstrung,
Weeps that, like Philomel, thou soon wilt fly
To distant groves, beneath another sky.
Oh, how unlike the proud when rais'd to rank,
Too swol'n to move within their nat'ral bank,
Who, soon o'erflowing, with resistless force,
Break down each bridge of social intercourse!
339

Humphreys has strength of character to bear,
Unmov'd, all fortunes in a lofty sphere;
Beneath his feet repulsive pride to throw,
And stoop with dignity to those below.
But if his country bids, in arduous hour,
He, bold, asserts his ministerial power;
And mildly stubborn, ev'n before a throne,
Supports his nation's honour and his own.
So of himself an emblem is his muse,
Both ever quick the proper tone to choose;—
From her how unaffected flows the strain,
Whene'er she treads the woodland and the plain;
But when her trumpet sounds the rough alarms,
And calls Columbia's patriot sons to arms;
Then fierce and spirited the note she pours,
And hosts rise thund'ring, “Freedom shall be ours!”
Blest Poet, Patriot, Warrior, oh, that long
Thy life may charm with virtue and with song!
Farewell! and gentle as thy partner's mind,
May'st thou thy passage to thy country find:
Charm'd Ocean emulate her placid soul,
Nor storms arise, nor angry billows roll;
But waft both swiftly o'er his rude domains,
To those, by Humphreys made, immortal plains;
Where first by Freedom and by genius taught,
Alike he sweetly sung and bravely fought.
WILLIAM O'MOORE, Chaplain to his Catholic Majesty's Foot Walloon Guards. Madrid, Jan. 1, 1802.
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