 | Poems of Freneau |  |
TO LORD CORNWALLIS,
AT YORK-VIRGINIA, October 8, 1781.
Hail, great destroyer (equall'd yet by none)
Of countries not thy master's, nor thine own;
Hatch'd by some demon on a stormy day,
Satan's best substitute to burn and slay;
Confin'd at last, hemm'd in by land and sea
Burgoyne himself was but a type of thee!
Of countries not thy master's, nor thine own;
Hatch'd by some demon on a stormy day,
Satan's best substitute to burn and slay;
Confin'd at last, hemm'd in by land and sea
Burgoyne himself was but a type of thee!
LIKE his, to freedom was thy deadly hate,
Like his thy baseness, and be his thy fate:
To you, like him, no prospect Nature yields
But ruin'd wastes and desolated fields—
Invain you raise the interposing wall,
And hoist those standards that, like you, must fall,
In you conclude the glories of your race,
Complete your monarch's, and your own disgrace.
Like his thy baseness, and be his thy fate:
To you, like him, no prospect Nature yields
But ruin'd wastes and desolated fields—
Invain you raise the interposing wall,
And hoist those standards that, like you, must fall,
In you conclude the glories of your race,
Complete your monarch's, and your own disgrace.
What has your lordship's pilfering arms attain'd?—
Vast stores of plunder, but no STATE regain'd—
That may return, though you perhaps may groan,
Restore it, ruffian, for 'tis not your own—
Then, lord and soldier, headlong to the brine
Rush down at once—the devil and the swine.
Vast stores of plunder, but no STATE regain'd—
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Restore it, ruffian, for 'tis not your own—
Then, lord and soldier, headlong to the brine
Rush down at once—the devil and the swine.
WOULD'ST thou at last with Washington engage,
Sad object of his pity, not his rage?
See, round thy posts how terribly advance
The chiefs, the armies, and the fleets of France,
Fight while you can, for warlike Rochambeau
Aims at your head his last decisive blow,
Unnumber'd ghosts, from earth untimely sped,
Can take no rest till you, like them, are dead—
Then die, my Lord; that only chance remains
To wash away dishonourable stains,
For small advantage would your capture bring,
The plundering servant of a bankrupt king.
Sad object of his pity, not his rage?
See, round thy posts how terribly advance
The chiefs, the armies, and the fleets of France,
Fight while you can, for warlike Rochambeau
Aims at your head his last decisive blow,
Unnumber'd ghosts, from earth untimely sped,
Can take no rest till you, like them, are dead—
Then die, my Lord; that only chance remains
To wash away dishonourable stains,
For small advantage would your capture bring,
The plundering servant of a bankrupt king.
[w. 1781]
1786
| Poems of Freneau | |