 | Poems of Freneau |  |
A SATIRE
In Answer to a Hostile Attack.
(First written and published 1775.)
Long have I sat on this disastrous shore,
And, sighing, sought to gain a passage o'er
To Europe's towns, where, as our travellers say,
Poets may flourish, or, perhaps they may;
But such abuse has from your coarse pen fell
I think I may defer my voyage as well;
Why should I far in search of honour roam,
And dunces leave to triumph here at home?
And, sighing, sought to gain a passage o'er
To Europe's towns, where, as our travellers say,
Poets may flourish, or, perhaps they may;
But such abuse has from your coarse pen fell
I think I may defer my voyage as well;
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And dunces leave to triumph here at home?
Great Jove in wrath a spark of genius gave,
And bade me drink the mad Pierian wave,
Hence came these rhimes, with truth ascrib'd to me,
That swell thy little soul to cruelty:
If thus, tormented at these slightly lays,
You strive to blast what ne'er was meant for praise,
How will you bear the more exalted rhyme,
By labour polished, and matured by time?
And bade me drink the mad Pierian wave,
Hence came these rhimes, with truth ascrib'd to me,
That swell thy little soul to cruelty:
If thus, tormented at these slightly lays,
You strive to blast what ne'er was meant for praise,
How will you bear the more exalted rhyme,
By labour polished, and matured by time?
Devoted madman! what inspired thy rage,
Who bade thy foolish muse with me engage?
Against a wind-mill would you try thy might,
Against a castle would a pigmy fight?
What could thy slanderous pen with malice arm
To injure him, who never did you harm?
Have we from you been urgent to attain
The mean ideas of your barren brain?
Have I been seen in borrowed clothes to shine,
And, when detected, swear by Jove they are mine?
O miscreant, hostile to thine own repose,
From thy own malice thy destruction flows!
Who bade thy foolish muse with me engage?
Against a wind-mill would you try thy might,
Against a castle would a pigmy fight?
What could thy slanderous pen with malice arm
To injure him, who never did you harm?
Have we from you been urgent to attain
The mean ideas of your barren brain?
Have I been seen in borrowed clothes to shine,
And, when detected, swear by Jove they are mine?
O miscreant, hostile to thine own repose,
From thy own malice thy destruction flows!
Blessed be our western world—its scenes conspire
To raise a poet's fancy and his fire,
Lo, blue-topt mountains to the skies ascend!
Lo, shady forests to the breezes bend!
See mighty streams meandering to the main!
See lambs and lambkins sport on every plain!
The spotted herds in flowery meadows see!
But what, ungenerous wretch, are these to thee?—
You find no charms in all that nature yields,
Then leave me to my grottoes and the fields:
I interfere not with your vast design—
Pursue your studies, and I'll follow mine,
Pursue, well pleas'd, your theologic schemes,
Attend professors, and correct your themes,
Still some dull nonsense, low-bred wit invent,
Or prove from scripture what it never meant,
Or far through law, that land of scoundrels, stray,
And truth disguise through all your mazy way;
Wealth you may gain, your clients you may squeeze,
And by long cheating, learn to live at ease;
If but in Wood or Littleton well read,
The devil shall help you to your daily bread.
To raise a poet's fancy and his fire,
Lo, blue-topt mountains to the skies ascend!
Lo, shady forests to the breezes bend!
See mighty streams meandering to the main!
See lambs and lambkins sport on every plain!
The spotted herds in flowery meadows see!
But what, ungenerous wretch, are these to thee?—
You find no charms in all that nature yields,
Then leave me to my grottoes and the fields:
I interfere not with your vast design—
Pursue your studies, and I'll follow mine,
Pursue, well pleas'd, your theologic schemes,
Attend professors, and correct your themes,
Still some dull nonsense, low-bred wit invent,
Or prove from scripture what it never meant,
263
And truth disguise through all your mazy way;
Wealth you may gain, your clients you may squeeze,
And by long cheating, learn to live at ease;
If but in Wood or Littleton well read,
The devil shall help you to your daily bread.
O waft me far, ye muses of the west—
Give me your green bowers and soft seats of rest—
Thrice happy in those dear retreats to find
A safe retirement from all human kind—
Though dire misfortunes every step attend,
The muse, still social, still remains a friend—
In solitude her converse gives delight,
With gay poetic dreams she cheers the night,
She aids me, shields me, bears me on her wings,
In spite of growling whelps, to high, exalted things,
Beyond the miscreants that my peace molest,
Miscreants, with dullness and with rage opprest.
Give me your green bowers and soft seats of rest—
Thrice happy in those dear retreats to find
A safe retirement from all human kind—
Though dire misfortunes every step attend,
The muse, still social, still remains a friend—
In solitude her converse gives delight,
With gay poetic dreams she cheers the night,
She aids me, shields me, bears me on her wings,
In spite of growling whelps, to high, exalted things,
Beyond the miscreants that my peace molest,
Miscreants, with dullness and with rage opprest.
Hail, great BRIGHT GENIUS, foe to honest fame,
Patron of dunces, and thyself the same,
You dream of conquest—tell me, how, or whence?
Act like a man and combat me with sense—
This evil have I known, and known but once,
Thus to be galled and slandered by a dunce,
Saw rage and weakness join their dastard plan
To crush the shadow, not attack the man.
Patron of dunces, and thyself the same,
You dream of conquest—tell me, how, or whence?
Act like a man and combat me with sense—
This evil have I known, and known but once,
Thus to be galled and slandered by a dunce,
Saw rage and weakness join their dastard plan
To crush the shadow, not attack the man.
What swarms of vermin from the sultry south
Like frogs surround thy pestilential mouth—
Clad in the gard of sacred sanctity,
What madness prompts thee to invent a lie?
Thou base defender of a wretched crew,
Thy tongue let loose on those you never knew,
The human spirit with the brutal joined,
The imps of Orcus in thy breast combined,
The genius barren, and the wicked heart,
Prepared to take each trifling miscreant's part,
The turn'd up nose, the monkey's foolish face,
The scorn of reason, and your sire's disgrace—
Like frogs surround thy pestilential mouth—
Clad in the gard of sacred sanctity,
What madness prompts thee to invent a lie?
Thou base defender of a wretched crew,
Thy tongue let loose on those you never knew,
The human spirit with the brutal joined,
The imps of Orcus in thy breast combined,
The genius barren, and the wicked heart,
Prepared to take each trifling miscreant's part,
The turn'd up nose, the monkey's foolish face,
The scorn of reason, and your sire's disgrace—
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Assist me, gods, to drive this dog of rhyme
Back to the torments of his native clime,
Where dullness mingles with her native earth,
And rhymes, not worth the pang that gave them birth!
Where did he learn to write or talk with men—
A senseless blockhead, with a scribbling pen—
In vile acrostics thou may'st please the fair,
Not less than with thy looks and powdered hair,
But strive no more with rhyme to daunt your foes,
Or, by the flame that in my bosom glows,
The muse on you shall her worst fury spend,
And hemp, or water, thy vile being end.
Back to the torments of his native clime,
Where dullness mingles with her native earth,
And rhymes, not worth the pang that gave them birth!
Where did he learn to write or talk with men—
A senseless blockhead, with a scribbling pen—
In vile acrostics thou may'st please the fair,
Not less than with thy looks and powdered hair,
But strive no more with rhyme to daunt your foes,
Or, by the flame that in my bosom glows,
The muse on you shall her worst fury spend,
And hemp, or water, thy vile being end.
Aspers'd like me, who would not grieve and rage!
Who would not burn, GIANT, to engage?
Him and his friends, a mean, designing race,
I, singly I, must combat face to face—
Alone I stand to meet the foul-mouth'd train,
Assisted by no poets of the plain,
Whose timerous Muses cannot swell their theme
Beyond a meadow or a purling stream—
Were not my breast impervious to despair,
And did not Clio reign unrivalled there,
I must expire beneath the ungenerous host,
And dullness triumph o'er a poet lost.
Who would not burn, GIANT, to engage?
Him and his friends, a mean, designing race,
I, singly I, must combat face to face—
Alone I stand to meet the foul-mouth'd train,
Assisted by no poets of the plain,
Whose timerous Muses cannot swell their theme
Beyond a meadow or a purling stream—
Were not my breast impervious to despair,
And did not Clio reign unrivalled there,
I must expire beneath the ungenerous host,
And dullness triumph o'er a poet lost.
Rage gives me wings, and fearless prompts me on
To conquer brutes the world should blush to own;
No peace, no quarter to such imps I lend,
Death and perdition on each line I send;
Bring all the wittlings that your host supplies,
A cloud of nonsense and a storm of lies—
Your kitchen wit—SANGRADO'S loud applause
That wretched rhymer with his lanthorn jaws—
His deep-set eyes forever on the wink,
His soul extracted from the public sink—
All such as he, to my confusion call—
And though ten myriads—I despise them all.
To conquer brutes the world should blush to own;
No peace, no quarter to such imps I lend,
Death and perdition on each line I send;
Bring all the wittlings that your host supplies,
A cloud of nonsense and a storm of lies—
Your kitchen wit—SANGRADO'S loud applause
That wretched rhymer with his lanthorn jaws—
His deep-set eyes forever on the wink,
His soul extracted from the public sink—
All such as he, to my confusion call—
And though ten myriads—I despise them all.
Come on dear satyrist, come—your muse is willing,
Your prose is merry, but your verse is killing—
Come on, attack me with that whining prose,
Your beard is red, and swine-like is your nose,
Like burning brush your bristly head of hair,
The ugliest image of a Greenland bear—
Come on—attack us with your choicest rhimes,
Sound void of sense betrays the unmeaning chimes—
Come, league your forces; all your wit combine,
Your wit not equal to the bold design—
The heaviest arms the muse can give, I wield,
To stretch a green goose floundering on the field,
'Swiggen, who, aided by some spurious muse,
But bellows nonsense, and but writes abuse,
Insect! immortal and unfading grown,
But by no deeds or merits of its own—
So, when some hateful monster sees the day,
In spirits we preserve it from decay,
But for what end, it is not hard to guess—
Not for its value, but its ugliness.
Your prose is merry, but your verse is killing—
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Your beard is red, and swine-like is your nose,
Like burning brush your bristly head of hair,
The ugliest image of a Greenland bear—
Come on—attack us with your choicest rhimes,
Sound void of sense betrays the unmeaning chimes—
Come, league your forces; all your wit combine,
Your wit not equal to the bold design—
The heaviest arms the muse can give, I wield,
To stretch a green goose floundering on the field,
'Swiggen, who, aided by some spurious muse,
But bellows nonsense, and but writes abuse,
Insect! immortal and unfading grown,
But by no deeds or merits of its own—
So, when some hateful monster sees the day,
In spirits we preserve it from decay,
But for what end, it is not hard to guess—
Not for its value, but its ugliness.
Now, by the winds which shake thy rubric mop,
(That nest of witches, or that barber's shop)
Great Satirist hear—Be wise in times to come,
A dunce by nature, bid thy muse be dumb,
Lest you, devoted to the infernal skies,
Descend, like Lucifer, no more to rise—
Sick of all feuds, to reason I appeal
From wars of paper, and from wars of steel,
Let others here their hopes and wishes end,
I to the sea with weary steps descend,
Quit the mean conquest that such swine might yield,
And leave one poet to enjoy the field.
In distant isles some happier scene we choose,
And court in softer shades the unwilling muse,
Thrice happy there, through peaceful plains to rove,
Or the cool verdure of the Orange grove,
Safe from the miscreants that my peace molest,
Miscreants, with dullness and with rage opprest.
(That nest of witches, or that barber's shop)
Great Satirist hear—Be wise in times to come,
A dunce by nature, bid thy muse be dumb,
Lest you, devoted to the infernal skies,
Descend, like Lucifer, no more to rise—
Sick of all feuds, to reason I appeal
From wars of paper, and from wars of steel,
Let others here their hopes and wishes end,
I to the sea with weary steps descend,
Quit the mean conquest that such swine might yield,
And leave one poet to enjoy the field.
In distant isles some happier scene we choose,
And court in softer shades the unwilling muse,
Thrice happy there, through peaceful plains to rove,
Or the cool verdure of the Orange grove,
Safe from the miscreants that my peace molest,
Miscreants, with dullness and with rage opprest.
[w. 1775]
1786
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