 | [Poems by Odell in] The Loyalist poetry of the Revolution |  |
13
2. PART II.
Why has thou soar'd so high, ambitious muse?
Descend in prudence, and contract thy views;
Not always generals offer to our aim;
By turns we must advert to meaner game.
Descend in prudence, and contract thy views;
Not always generals offer to our aim;
By turns we must advert to meaner game.
Yet hard to rescue from oblivion's grasp,
The worthless beetle, and the noxious asp;
And full as hard to save for after-times
The names of men known only for their crimes.
Left to themselves they soon would be forgot;
But yet 'tis right that rogues should hang and rot.
The worthless beetle, and the noxious asp;
And full as hard to save for after-times
The names of men known only for their crimes.
Left to themselves they soon would be forgot;
But yet 'tis right that rogues should hang and rot.
Still, as we own, and as old saws relate,
Not always thrives the verse that haunts the great:
Of rulers in America, I deem,
Swift is the change, and slight is the esteem;
When Houston from Savannah fled of late,
Did any ask who took his chair of state?
Let Henry quit, and Jefferson succeed;
Let Wharton's place (who cares?) be fill'd by Reed;
Who matters what of Stirling may become,
The quintessence of whisky, soul of rum?
Fractious at nine, quite gay at twelve o'clock;
From thence till bed-time stupid as a stock:
These are sad samples—but we'll cull our store;
Can liberality herself do more?
Not always thrives the verse that haunts the great:
Of rulers in America, I deem,
Swift is the change, and slight is the esteem;
When Houston from Savannah fled of late,
Did any ask who took his chair of state?
Let Henry quit, and Jefferson succeed;
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Who matters what of Stirling may become,
The quintessence of whisky, soul of rum?
Fractious at nine, quite gay at twelve o'clock;
From thence till bed-time stupid as a stock:
These are sad samples—but we'll cull our store;
Can liberality herself do more?
Turn out, black monsters—let us take our choice;
What dev'lish figure's this, with dev'lish voice?
Oh! 'tis Pulaski—'tis a foreign chief;
On him we'll comment—be our comment brief:
What are his merits, judges may dispute;
We'll solve the doubt, and praise him for a brute.
No quarter, is his motto—sweet and short:
Good Britons, give him a severe retort.
As yet he 'scapes the shot deserv'd so well;
His nobler horse in Carolina fell;
He fears not in the field where heroes bleed,
He starts at nothing but a gen'rous deed.
What dev'lish figure's this, with dev'lish voice?
Oh! 'tis Pulaski—'tis a foreign chief;
On him we'll comment—be our comment brief:
What are his merits, judges may dispute;
We'll solve the doubt, and praise him for a brute.
No quarter, is his motto—sweet and short:
Good Britons, give him a severe retort.
As yet he 'scapes the shot deserv'd so well;
His nobler horse in Carolina fell;
He fears not in the field where heroes bleed,
He starts at nothing but a gen'rous deed.
Escap'd from Poland, where his murd'rous knife,
'Tis said, was rais'd against his sov'reign's life;
Perhaps he scoffs with fashionable mirth
The notion of a God, who rules the earth:
Fool, not to see that something more than lot,
Conducts the traitor to this destin'd spot;
Rank with congenial crimes, that call for blood;
Where justice soon must pour the purple flood;
A parricide, with parricides to-die,
And vindicate the pow'r that reigns on high.
'Tis said, was rais'd against his sov'reign's life;
Perhaps he scoffs with fashionable mirth
The notion of a God, who rules the earth:
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Conducts the traitor to this destin'd spot;
Rank with congenial crimes, that call for blood;
Where justice soon must pour the purple flood;
A parricide, with parricides to-die,
And vindicate the pow'r that reigns on high.
Who is that phantom, silent, pale, and slow,
That looks the picture of dejected woe?
Art thou not Wilson?—ha! dost thou lament
Thy poison'd principles, thy days mis-spent?
Was it thy fatal faith that led thee wrong?
Yet hads't thou reason, and that reason strong:
Judgment was thine, and in no common share;
That judgment cultur'd with assiduous care:
But all was fruitless; popular applause
Seduc'd thee to embrace an impious cause.
Now, or my mind deceives me, thou wouldst fain
Thy former duty, former truth regain:
Like some rash boy, whom strong desire to lave
Too daring, tempts to trust the briny wave;
But soon borne out to distance from the strand,
He longs with ardour to retrieve the land:
In vain—the waves his weak endeavours spurn,
And rapid tides forbid him to return.
That looks the picture of dejected woe?
Art thou not Wilson?—ha! dost thou lament
Thy poison'd principles, thy days mis-spent?
Was it thy fatal faith that led thee wrong?
Yet hads't thou reason, and that reason strong:
Judgment was thine, and in no common share;
That judgment cultur'd with assiduous care:
But all was fruitless; popular applause
Seduc'd thee to embrace an impious cause.
Now, or my mind deceives me, thou wouldst fain
Thy former duty, former truth regain:
Like some rash boy, whom strong desire to lave
Too daring, tempts to trust the briny wave;
But soon borne out to distance from the strand,
He longs with ardour to retrieve the land:
In vain—the waves his weak endeavours spurn,
And rapid tides forbid him to return.
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Room for a spectre of portentous show;
Make room for triple-headed Roberdeau!
Churchman, dissenter, methodist appear;
Chairman, and congress-man, and brigadier;
Cerberean barker at the Stygian ford,
Where is thy bible, say, and where thy sword?
Thy bible—that long since was wisely lost,
Because its maxims with thy practice cross'd;
Well, but thy weapon—was it lost in fight?
Hush, I remember—'twas to aid thy flight.
Of brass, lead, leather, treble is thy shield;
And treble tremblings seize thee in the field;
Treble in office and in faith thou art,
And nothing double in thee, but thy heart.
Make room for triple-headed Roberdeau!
Churchman, dissenter, methodist appear;
Chairman, and congress-man, and brigadier;
Cerberean barker at the Stygian ford,
Where is thy bible, say, and where thy sword?
Thy bible—that long since was wisely lost,
Because its maxims with thy practice cross'd;
Well, but thy weapon—was it lost in fight?
Hush, I remember—'twas to aid thy flight.
Of brass, lead, leather, treble is thy shield;
And treble tremblings seize thee in the field;
Treble in office and in faith thou art,
And nothing double in thee, but thy heart.
Ye priests of Baal, from hot Tartarean stoves,
Approach with all the prophets of the groves.
Mess-mates of Jezebel's luxurious mess,
Come in the splendor of pontific dress;
Haste to receive your chief in solemn state;
Haste to attend on Witherspoon the great.
Ye lying spirits too, who brisk and bold
Appear'd before the throne divine of old,
For form, not use, augment his rev'rend train;
The sire of lies resides within his brain.
Scotland confess'd him sensible and shrewd,
Austere and rigid; many thought him good.
But turbulence of temper spoil'd the whole,
And show'd the movements of his inmost soul.
Disclos'd machinery loses of its force:
He felt the fact, and westward bent his course.
Approach with all the prophets of the groves.
Mess-mates of Jezebel's luxurious mess,
Come in the splendor of pontific dress;
Haste to receive your chief in solemn state;
Haste to attend on Witherspoon the great.
Ye lying spirits too, who brisk and bold
Appear'd before the throne divine of old,
For form, not use, augment his rev'rend train;
The sire of lies resides within his brain.
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Austere and rigid; many thought him good.
But turbulence of temper spoil'd the whole,
And show'd the movements of his inmost soul.
Disclos'd machinery loses of its force:
He felt the fact, and westward bent his course.
Princeton receiv'd him, bright amidst his flaws,
And saw him labour in the good old cause;
Saw him promote the meritorious work,
The hate of Kings, and glory of the Kirk.
And saw him labour in the good old cause;
Saw him promote the meritorious work,
The hate of Kings, and glory of the Kirk.
Excuse, each reverend Caledonian seer,
Whose worth I own, whose learning I revere;
Your duty to the Prince who fills the throne,
Your liberal sentiments are fully known:
Here in these lands start up a spurious brood,
And boast themselves allied to you in blood;
Think it not hard their faults if I condemn;
'Tis not with you I combat, but with them.
Whose worth I own, whose learning I revere;
Your duty to the Prince who fills the throne,
Your liberal sentiments are fully known:
Here in these lands start up a spurious brood,
And boast themselves allied to you in blood;
Think it not hard their faults if I condemn;
'Tis not with you I combat, but with them.
Return we to the hero of our song:
Who now but he the darling of the throng;
Known in the pulpit by seditious toils;
Grown into consequence by civil broils;
Three times he tried, and miserably fail'd
To overset the laws—the fourth prevail'd.
Whether as tool he acted, or as guide,
Is yet a doubt; his conscience must decide.
Meanwhile unhappy Jersey mourns her thrall,
Ordain'd by vilest of the vile to fall;
To fall by Witherspoon—O name, the curse
Of sound religion, and disgrace of verse.
Who now but he the darling of the throng;
Known in the pulpit by seditious toils;
Grown into consequence by civil broils;
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To overset the laws—the fourth prevail'd.
Whether as tool he acted, or as guide,
Is yet a doubt; his conscience must decide.
Meanwhile unhappy Jersey mourns her thrall,
Ordain'd by vilest of the vile to fall;
To fall by Witherspoon—O name, the curse
Of sound religion, and disgrace of verse.
Member of Congress we must hail him next:
Come out of Babylon, was now his text.
Fierce as the fiercest, foremost of the first,
He'd rail at Kings, with venom well-nigh burst:
Not uniformly grand—for some bye end
To dirtiest acts of treason he'd descend.
I've known him seek the dungeon dark as night,
Imprison'd Tories to convert or fright;
Whilst to myself I've humm'd, in dismal tune,
I'd rather be a dog than Witherspoon.
Be patient, reader—for the issue trust,
His day will come—remember, Heav'n is just.
Come out of Babylon, was now his text.
Fierce as the fiercest, foremost of the first,
He'd rail at Kings, with venom well-nigh burst:
Not uniformly grand—for some bye end
To dirtiest acts of treason he'd descend.
I've known him seek the dungeon dark as night,
Imprison'd Tories to convert or fright;
Whilst to myself I've humm'd, in dismal tune,
I'd rather be a dog than Witherspoon.
Be patient, reader—for the issue trust,
His day will come—remember, Heav'n is just.
Yes, Heav'n is just—what then can they expect,
Who, not impell'd by violence of sect—
Bred up in doctrines eminently pure,
Which loyalty instill, and peace ensure—
Yet idolize Rebellion's bleating calves,
Or meanly split their principles in halves.
Half priest, half presbyter, I mourn thee, White!
Half whig, half tory, Smith, canst thou be right?
O fools, to worship in forbidden ground,
O worse than rebels, who your mother wound!
Who, not impell'd by violence of sect—
Bred up in doctrines eminently pure,
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Yet idolize Rebellion's bleating calves,
Or meanly split their principles in halves.
Half priest, half presbyter, I mourn thee, White!
Half whig, half tory, Smith, canst thou be right?
O fools, to worship in forbidden ground,
O worse than rebels, who your mother wound!
What uproar now—what hideous monsters rush,
Whose recreant looks put honour to the blush?
Mixtures of pallid fear, and bloody rage,
Like Banquo's ghost tremendous on the stage;
These are from Georgia, from the southern sun;
Swift as Achilles, not to fight, but run;
Their hides all reeking from the British lash—
Queer gen'rals—Moultrie, Lincoln, Elbert, Ash.
Whose recreant looks put honour to the blush?
Mixtures of pallid fear, and bloody rage,
Like Banquo's ghost tremendous on the stage;
These are from Georgia, from the southern sun;
Swift as Achilles, not to fight, but run;
Their hides all reeking from the British lash—
Queer gen'rals—Moultrie, Lincoln, Elbert, Ash.
Bring up yon wretched solitary pair,
Mark'd with pride, malice, envy, rage, despair.
Why are you banish'd from your comrades, tell?
Will none endure your company in hell?
That all the fiends avoid your sight is plain,
Infamous Reed, more infamous M'Kean.
Is this the order of your rank agreed;
Or is it base M'Kean, and baser Reed?
Go, shunn'd of men, disown'd of devils, go,
And traverse desolate the realms of woe.
Mark'd with pride, malice, envy, rage, despair.
Why are you banish'd from your comrades, tell?
Will none endure your company in hell?
That all the fiends avoid your sight is plain,
Infamous Reed, more infamous M'Kean.
Is this the order of your rank agreed;
Or is it base M'Kean, and baser Reed?
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And traverse desolate the realms of woe.
Ye pow'rs, what noise, what execrable yell!
How now, Dick Peters, hast thou emptied hell?
Legions and shoals of all prodigious forms,
Loud as the rattling of a thousand storms,
Gorgons in look, and Caffres in address,
Dutch, Yankies, Yellow-wigs for audience press.
How now, Dick Peters, hast thou emptied hell?
Legions and shoals of all prodigious forms,
Loud as the rattling of a thousand storms,
Gorgons in look, and Caffres in address,
Dutch, Yankies, Yellow-wigs for audience press.
Wretches, whose acts the very French abhor;
Commissioners of loans, and boards of war,
Marine committees, commissaries, scribes,
Assemblies, councils, senatorial tribes,
Vain of their titles all attention claim;
Proud of dishonour, glorying in their shame.
Ask you the names of these egregious wights?
I could as soon recount Glendower's sprites.
Thick as musquitos, venomously keen;
Thicker than locusts, spoilers of the green;
Swarming like maggots, who the carcass scour
Of some poor ox, and as they crawl, devour;
They'd mock the labour of a hundred pens:
“Back, owly-headed monsters, to your dens.”
At length they're silenc'd—Laurens, thou draw near;
What I shall utter, thou attentive hear:
I loathe all conference with thy boist'rous clan;
But now with thee I'll argue as a man.
Commissioners of loans, and boards of war,
Marine committees, commissaries, scribes,
Assemblies, councils, senatorial tribes,
Vain of their titles all attention claim;
Proud of dishonour, glorying in their shame.
Ask you the names of these egregious wights?
I could as soon recount Glendower's sprites.
Thick as musquitos, venomously keen;
Thicker than locusts, spoilers of the green;
Swarming like maggots, who the carcass scour
Of some poor ox, and as they crawl, devour;
They'd mock the labour of a hundred pens:
“Back, owly-headed monsters, to your dens.”
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What I shall utter, thou attentive hear:
I loathe all conference with thy boist'rous clan;
But now with thee I'll argue as a man.
What could incite thee, Laurens, to rebel?
Thy soul thou wouldst not for a trifle sell.
'Twas not of pow'r the wild, insatiate lust;
Mistaken as thou art, I deem thee just.
Saw'st thou thy King tyrannically rule?
Thou couldst not think it—thou art not a fool.
Thou wast no bankrupt, no enthusiast thou;
The clearness of thy fame e'en foes allow:
For months I watch'd thee with a jealous eye,
Yet could no turpitude of mind espy:
In private life I hold thee far from base;
Thy public conduct wears another face.
In thee a stern republican I view;
This of thy actions is the only clew.
Admit thy principles—I then demand,
Could these give right to desolate a land?
Could it be right, with arbitrary will
To fine, imprison, plunder, torture, kill!
Impose new oaths, make stubborn conscience yield,
And force out thousands to the bloody field?
Could it be right to do these monstrous things,
Because thy nature was averse to Kings?
Thy soul thou wouldst not for a trifle sell.
'Twas not of pow'r the wild, insatiate lust;
Mistaken as thou art, I deem thee just.
Saw'st thou thy King tyrannically rule?
Thou couldst not think it—thou art not a fool.
Thou wast no bankrupt, no enthusiast thou;
The clearness of thy fame e'en foes allow:
For months I watch'd thee with a jealous eye,
Yet could no turpitude of mind espy:
In private life I hold thee far from base;
Thy public conduct wears another face.
In thee a stern republican I view;
This of thy actions is the only clew.
Admit thy principles—I then demand,
Could these give right to desolate a land?
Could it be right, with arbitrary will
To fine, imprison, plunder, torture, kill!
Impose new oaths, make stubborn conscience yield,
And force out thousands to the bloody field?
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Because thy nature was averse to Kings?
Well, but a stern republican thou art;
Heav'n send thee soon to meet with thy desert!
Thee, Laurens, foe to monarchy we call,
And thou, or legal government, must fall.
Who wept for Cato, was not Cato's friend;
Who pitied Brutus, Brutus would offend;
So, Laurens, to conclude my grave harangue,
I would not pity tho' I saw thee hang.
Heav'n send thee soon to meet with thy desert!
Thee, Laurens, foe to monarchy we call,
And thou, or legal government, must fall.
Who wept for Cato, was not Cato's friend;
Who pitied Brutus, Brutus would offend;
So, Laurens, to conclude my grave harangue,
I would not pity tho' I saw thee hang.
Bless me! what formidable figure's this,
That interrupts my words with saucy hiss?
She seems at least a woman by her face,
With harlot smiles adorn'd and winning grace:
A glittering gorget on her breast she wears;
The shining silver two inscriptions bears;
Servant of Servants, in a laurel wreath,
But Lord of Lords is written underneath.
A flowing robe, that reaches to her heels,
From sight the foulness of her shape conceals,
She holds with poison'd darts a quiver stor'd
Circean potions, and a flaming sword.
This is Democracy—the case is plain;
She comes attended by a motley train:
Addresses to the people some unfold;
Rods, scourges, fetters, axes, others hold;
The sorceress waves her magic wand about,
And models at her will the rabble rout;
Here Violence puts on a close disguise
And Public Spirit's character belies.
The dress of Policy see Cunning steal,
And Persecution wear the coat of Zeal;
Hypocrisy Religion's garb assume,
Fraud Virtue strip, and figure in her room;
With other changes tedious to relate
All emblematic of our present state.
That interrupts my words with saucy hiss?
She seems at least a woman by her face,
With harlot smiles adorn'd and winning grace:
A glittering gorget on her breast she wears;
The shining silver two inscriptions bears;
Servant of Servants, in a laurel wreath,
But Lord of Lords is written underneath.
A flowing robe, that reaches to her heels,
From sight the foulness of her shape conceals,
She holds with poison'd darts a quiver stor'd
Circean potions, and a flaming sword.
This is Democracy—the case is plain;
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Addresses to the people some unfold;
Rods, scourges, fetters, axes, others hold;
The sorceress waves her magic wand about,
And models at her will the rabble rout;
Here Violence puts on a close disguise
And Public Spirit's character belies.
The dress of Policy see Cunning steal,
And Persecution wear the coat of Zeal;
Hypocrisy Religion's garb assume,
Fraud Virtue strip, and figure in her room;
With other changes tedious to relate
All emblematic of our present state.
She calls the nations—Lo! in crowds they sup
Intoxication from her golden cup.
Joy to my heart, and pleasure to my eye,
A chosen phalanx her attempts defy:
In rage she rises and her arrows throws;
O all ye saints and angels interpose!
Amazement! every shaft is spent in vain;
The sons of Truth inviolate remain.
Invulnerable champions, sacred band,
Behind the shield of Loyalty they stand;
Unhurt, unsullied they maintain their ground,
And all the host of heav'n their praises sound.
Intoxication from her golden cup.
Joy to my heart, and pleasure to my eye,
A chosen phalanx her attempts defy:
In rage she rises and her arrows throws;
O all ye saints and angels interpose!
Amazement! every shaft is spent in vain;
The sons of Truth inviolate remain.
Invulnerable champions, sacred band,
Behind the shield of Loyalty they stand;
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And all the host of heav'n their praises sound.
Yet too, too many feel her baneful spell;
Bleed by her shafts, or by her venom swell.
The cruel plague assaults each vital part;
Arise, some sage of Esculapian art!
Thee, Inglis, wise physician, thee I urge;
Direct the diet thou, prepare the purge.
Thou to the bottom probe the dangerous sore,
And in the wound the friendly balsam pour.
Enough for me the caustic to apply,
Twinge the proud flesh, and draw the face awry:
Thou, cure the parts which I have forc'd to feel;
I make the patient smart, but thou canst heal.
Bleed by her shafts, or by her venom swell.
The cruel plague assaults each vital part;
Arise, some sage of Esculapian art!
Thee, Inglis, wise physician, thee I urge;
Direct the diet thou, prepare the purge.
Thou to the bottom probe the dangerous sore,
And in the wound the friendly balsam pour.
Enough for me the caustic to apply,
Twinge the proud flesh, and draw the face awry:
Thou, cure the parts which I have forc'd to feel;
I make the patient smart, but thou canst heal.
| [Poems by Odell in] The Loyalist poetry of the Revolution | |