 | Poems of Freneau |  |
ON THE FALL OF GENERAL EARL CORNWALLIS,
Who, with above seven thousand Men, surrendered themselves prisoners of war, to the renowned and illustrious General GEORGE WASHINGTON, commander in chief of the allied armies of France and America, on the memorable 19th of October, 1781.
“Give us the proudest prisoner of the Goths,
“That we may hew his limbs, and on a pile
“Ad manes fratrum sacrifice his flesh,
“Before this earthly prison of their bones;
“That so the shadows be not unappeas'd,
“Nor we disturb'd with prodigies on earth.”
Shakespeare's Titus Andronicus. Act. I. Scene II
“That we may hew his limbs, and on a pile
“Ad manes fratrum sacrifice his flesh,
“Before this earthly prison of their bones;
“That so the shadows be not unappeas'd,
“Nor we disturb'd with prodigies on earth.”
Shakespeare's Titus Andronicus. Act. I. Scene II
A Chieftain join'd with Howe, Burgoyne, and Gage,
Once more, nor this the last, provokes my rage—
Who saw these Nimrods first for conquest burn!
Who has not seen them to the dust return?
This ruffian next, who scour'd our ravag'd fields,
Foe to the human race, Cornwallis yields!—
None e'er before essay'd such desperate crimes,
Alone he stood, arch-butcher of the times,
Rov'd uncontroul'd this wasted country o'er,
Strew'd plains with dead, and bath'd his jaws with gore?
Once more, nor this the last, provokes my rage—
63
Who has not seen them to the dust return?
This ruffian next, who scour'd our ravag'd fields,
Foe to the human race, Cornwallis yields!—
None e'er before essay'd such desperate crimes,
Alone he stood, arch-butcher of the times,
Rov'd uncontroul'd this wasted country o'er,
Strew'd plains with dead, and bath'd his jaws with gore?
'TWAS thus the wolf, who sought by night his prey,
And plunder'd all he met with on his way,
Stole what he could, and murder'd as he pass'd,
Chanc'd on a trap, and lost his head at last.
And plunder'd all he met with on his way,
Stole what he could, and murder'd as he pass'd,
Chanc'd on a trap, and lost his head at last.
WHAT pen can write, what human tongue can tell
The endless murders of this man of hell!
Nature in him disgrac'd the form divine;
Nature mistook, she meant him for a—swine:
That eye his forehead to her shame adorns;
Blush! nature, blush—bestow him tail and horns!—
By him the orphans mourn—the widow'd dame
Saw ruin spreading in the wasteful flame;
Gash'd o'er with wounds beheld with streaming eye
A son, a brother, or a consort, die!—
Through ruin'd realms bones lie without a tomb,
And souls be sped to their eternal doom,
Who else had liv'd, and seen their toils again
Bless'd by the genius of the rural reign.
The endless murders of this man of hell!
Nature in him disgrac'd the form divine;
Nature mistook, she meant him for a—swine:
That eye his forehead to her shame adorns;
Blush! nature, blush—bestow him tail and horns!—
By him the orphans mourn—the widow'd dame
Saw ruin spreading in the wasteful flame;
Gash'd o'er with wounds beheld with streaming eye
A son, a brother, or a consort, die!—
Through ruin'd realms bones lie without a tomb,
And souls be sped to their eternal doom,
Who else had liv'd, and seen their toils again
Bless'd by the genius of the rural reign.
BUT turn your eyes, and see the murderer fall,
Then say—“Cornwallis has atchiev'd it all.”—
Yet he preserves the honour and the fame
That vanquish'd heroes only ought to claim—
Is he a hero!—Read, and you will find
Heroes are beings of a different kind:—
Compassion to the worst of men is due,
And mercy heaven's first attribute, 'tis true;
Yet most presume it was too nobly done
To grant mild terms to Satan's first-born son.
Then say—“Cornwallis has atchiev'd it all.”—
Yet he preserves the honour and the fame
That vanquish'd heroes only ought to claim—
Is he a hero!—Read, and you will find
Heroes are beings of a different kind:—
Compassion to the worst of men is due,
And mercy heaven's first attribute, 'tis true;
Yet most presume it was too nobly done
To grant mild terms to Satan's first-born son.
CONVINC'D we are, no foreign spot of earth
But Britain only, gave this reptile birth.
That white-cliff'd isle, the vengeful dragon's den,
Has sent us monsters where we look'd for men.
When memory paints their horrid deeds anew,
And brings these murdering miscreants to your view,
Then ask the leaders of these bloody bands,
Can they expect compassion at our hands?—
But Britain only, gave this reptile birth.
64
Has sent us monsters where we look'd for men.
When memory paints their horrid deeds anew,
And brings these murdering miscreants to your view,
Then ask the leaders of these bloody bands,
Can they expect compassion at our hands?—
BUT may this year, the glorious eighty-one,
Conclude successful, as it first begun;
This brilliant year their total downfall see,
And what Cornwallis is, may Clinton be.
Conclude successful, as it first begun;
This brilliant year their total downfall see,
And what Cornwallis is, may Clinton be.
O COME the time, nor distant be the day,
When our bold navy shall its wings display;
Mann'd by our sons, to seek that barbarous shore,
The wrongs revenging that their fathers bore:
As Samuel hew'd the tyrant Agag down,
So hew the wearer of the British crown;
Unpitying, next his hated offspring slay,
Or into foreign lands the fiends convey:
Give them their turn to pine and die in chains,
'Till not one monster of the race remains.
When our bold navy shall its wings display;
Mann'd by our sons, to seek that barbarous shore,
The wrongs revenging that their fathers bore:
As Samuel hew'd the tyrant Agag down,
So hew the wearer of the British crown;
Unpitying, next his hated offspring slay,
Or into foreign lands the fiends convey:
Give them their turn to pine and die in chains,
'Till not one monster of the race remains.
THOU, who resid'st on those thrice happy shores,
Where white rob'd peace her envied blessings pours,
Stay, and enjoy the pleasures that she yields;
But come not, stranger, to our wasted fields.
For warlike hosts on every plain appear,
War damps the beauties of the rising year:
In vain the groves their bloomy sweets display;
War's clouded winter chills the charms of May:
Here human blood the trampled harvest stains;
Here bones of men yet whiten all the plains;
Seas teem with dead; and our unhappy shore
Forever blushes with its children's gore.
Where white rob'd peace her envied blessings pours,
Stay, and enjoy the pleasures that she yields;
But come not, stranger, to our wasted fields.
For warlike hosts on every plain appear,
War damps the beauties of the rising year:
In vain the groves their bloomy sweets display;
War's clouded winter chills the charms of May:
Here human blood the trampled harvest stains;
Here bones of men yet whiten all the plains;
Seas teem with dead; and our unhappy shore
Forever blushes with its children's gore.
BUT turn your eyes—behold the tyrant fall,
And think—Cornwallis has atchiev'd it all.—
And think—Cornwallis has atchiev'd it all.—
ALL mean revenge Americans disdain,
Oft have they prov'd it, and now prove again;
With nobler fires their generous bosoms glow;
Still in the captive they forget the foe:—
But when a nation takes a wrongful cause,
And hostile turns to heaven's and nature's laws;
When, sacrificing at ambition's shrine,
Kings slight the mandates of the power divine,
And devastation spread on every side,
To gratify their malice or their pride,
And send their slaves their projects to fulfil,
To wrest our freedom, or our blood to spill:—
Such to forgive, is virtue too sublime;
For even compassion has been found a crime.
Oft have they prov'd it, and now prove again;
With nobler fires their generous bosoms glow;
Still in the captive they forget the foe:—
65
And hostile turns to heaven's and nature's laws;
When, sacrificing at ambition's shrine,
Kings slight the mandates of the power divine,
And devastation spread on every side,
To gratify their malice or their pride,
And send their slaves their projects to fulfil,
To wrest our freedom, or our blood to spill:—
Such to forgive, is virtue too sublime;
For even compassion has been found a crime.
A PROPHET once, for miracles renown'd,
Bade Joash smite the arrows on the ground—
Taking the mystic shafts, the prince obey'd,
Thrice smote them on the earth—and then he stay'd—
Bade Joash smite the arrows on the ground—
Taking the mystic shafts, the prince obey'd,
Thrice smote them on the earth—and then he stay'd—
GRIEV'D when he saw full victory deny'd,
“Six times you should have smote,” the prophet cry'd,
“Then had proud Syria sunk beneath thy power;
“Now thrice you smite her—but shall smite no more.”
“Six times you should have smote,” the prophet cry'd,
“Then had proud Syria sunk beneath thy power;
“Now thrice you smite her—but shall smite no more.”
CORNWALLIS! thou art rank'd among the great;
Such was the will of all-controuling fate.
As mighty men, who liv'd in days of yore,
Were figur'd out some centuries before;
So you with them in equal honour join,
Your great precursor's name was Jack Burgoyne!
Like you was he, a man in arms renown'd,
Who, hot for conquest, sail'd the ocean round;
This, this was he, who scour'd the woods for praise,
And burnt down cities to describe the blaze!
Such was the will of all-controuling fate.
As mighty men, who liv'd in days of yore,
Were figur'd out some centuries before;
So you with them in equal honour join,
Your great precursor's name was Jack Burgoyne!
Like you was he, a man in arms renown'd,
Who, hot for conquest, sail'd the ocean round;
This, this was he, who scour'd the woods for praise,
And burnt down cities to describe the blaze!
So, while on fire, his harp Rome's tyrant strung,
And as the buildings flam'd, old Nero sung.
And as the buildings flam'd, old Nero sung.
WHO would have guess'd the purpose of the fates,
When that proud boaster bow'd to conquering Gates!—
Then sung the sisters as the wheel went round,
(Could we have heard the invigorating sound)
Thus surely did the fatal sisters sing—
“When just four years do this same season bring,
“And in his annual journey, when the sun
“Four times completely shall his circuit run,
“An angel then shall rid you of your fears,
“By binding Satan for a thousand years,
“Shall lash the serpent to the infernal shore,
“To waste the nations, and deceive no more,
“Make wars and blood, and tyranny to cease,
“And hush the fiends of Britain into peace.”
When that proud boaster bow'd to conquering Gates!—
Then sung the sisters as the wheel went round,
(Could we have heard the invigorating sound)
66
“When just four years do this same season bring,
“And in his annual journey, when the sun
“Four times completely shall his circuit run,
“An angel then shall rid you of your fears,
“By binding Satan for a thousand years,
“Shall lash the serpent to the infernal shore,
“To waste the nations, and deceive no more,
“Make wars and blood, and tyranny to cease,
“And hush the fiends of Britain into peace.”
JOY to your lordship, and your high descent,
You are the Satan that the sisters meant.
Too soon you found your race of ruin run,
Your conquests ended, and your battles done!
But that to live is better than to die,
And life you chose, though life with infamy,
You should have climb'd your loftiest vessel's deck,
And hung a millstone round your halter'd neck—
Then plung'd forever to the wat'ry bed,
Hell in your heart, and vengeance on your head.
You are the Satan that the sisters meant.
Too soon you found your race of ruin run,
Your conquests ended, and your battles done!
But that to live is better than to die,
And life you chose, though life with infamy,
You should have climb'd your loftiest vessel's deck,
And hung a millstone round your halter'd neck—
Then plung'd forever to the wat'ry bed,
Hell in your heart, and vengeance on your head.
ALL must confess, that in regard to you,
'Twas wrong to rob the devil of his due—
For Hayne, for Hayne! no death but thine atones;
For thee, Cornwallis, how the gallows groans!
That injur'd man's, and all the blood you've shed,
That blood shall rest on your devoted head;
Asham'd to live, and yet afraid to die,
Your courage slacken'd as the foe drew nigh—
Ungrateful wretch, to yield your favourite band
To chains and prisons in a hostile land:
To the wide world your Negro friends to cast
And leave your Tories to be hang'd at last!—
You should have fought with horror and amaze,
'Till scorch'd to cinders in the cannon blaze,
'Till all your host of Beelzebubs was slain,
Doom'd to disgrace no human shape again—
As if from hell this horned host he drew,
Swift from the South the embodied ruffians flew;
Destruction follow'd at their cloven feet,
'Till you, Fayette, constrain'd them to retreat,
And held them close, till thy fam'd squadron came,
De Grasse, completing their eternal shame.
'Twas wrong to rob the devil of his due—
For Hayne, for Hayne! no death but thine atones;
For thee, Cornwallis, how the gallows groans!
That injur'd man's, and all the blood you've shed,
That blood shall rest on your devoted head;
Asham'd to live, and yet afraid to die,
Your courage slacken'd as the foe drew nigh—
Ungrateful wretch, to yield your favourite band
To chains and prisons in a hostile land:
To the wide world your Negro friends to cast
And leave your Tories to be hang'd at last!—
You should have fought with horror and amaze,
'Till scorch'd to cinders in the cannon blaze,
'Till all your host of Beelzebubs was slain,
Doom'd to disgrace no human shape again—
As if from hell this horned host he drew,
Swift from the South the embodied ruffians flew;
67
'Till you, Fayette, constrain'd them to retreat,
And held them close, till thy fam'd squadron came,
De Grasse, completing their eternal shame.
WHEN the loud cannon's unremitting glare
And red hot balls compell'd you to despair,
How could you stand to meet your generous foe?
Did not the sight confound your soul with woe?—
In thy great soul what god-like virtues shine,
What inborn greatness, WASHINGTON, is thine!—
Else had no prisoner trod these lands to-day,
All, with his lordship, had been swept away,
All doom'd alike death's vermin to regale,
Nor one been left to tell the dreadful tale!
But his own terms the vanquish'd murderer nam'd—
He nobly gave the miscreant all he claim'd,
And bade Cornwallis, conquer'd and distress'd,
Bear all his torments in his tortur'd breast.
And red hot balls compell'd you to despair,
How could you stand to meet your generous foe?
Did not the sight confound your soul with woe?—
In thy great soul what god-like virtues shine,
What inborn greatness, WASHINGTON, is thine!—
Else had no prisoner trod these lands to-day,
All, with his lordship, had been swept away,
All doom'd alike death's vermin to regale,
Nor one been left to tell the dreadful tale!
But his own terms the vanquish'd murderer nam'd—
He nobly gave the miscreant all he claim'd,
And bade Cornwallis, conquer'd and distress'd,
Bear all his torments in his tortur'd breast.
Now curs'd with life, a foe to man and God,
Like Cain, I drive you to the land of Nod.
He with a brother's blood his hands did stain,
One brother he, you have a thousand slain.
And, O! may heaven affix some public mark
To know Cornwallis—may he howl and bark!—
On eagle's wings explore your downward flight
To the deep horrors of the darkest night,
Where, wrapt in shade on ocean's utmost bound,
No longer sun, nor moon, nor stars are found;
Where never light her kindling radiance shed,
But the dark comets rove with all their dead,
Doom'd through the tracks of endless space to run
No more revolving to confound the sun.
Like Cain, I drive you to the land of Nod.
He with a brother's blood his hands did stain,
One brother he, you have a thousand slain.
And, O! may heaven affix some public mark
To know Cornwallis—may he howl and bark!—
On eagle's wings explore your downward flight
To the deep horrors of the darkest night,
Where, wrapt in shade on ocean's utmost bound,
No longer sun, nor moon, nor stars are found;
Where never light her kindling radiance shed,
But the dark comets rove with all their dead,
Doom'd through the tracks of endless space to run
No more revolving to confound the sun.
SUCH horrid deeds your spotted soul defame
We grieve to think your shape and ours the same!
Enjoy what comfort in this life you can,
The form you have, not feelings of a man;
Haste to the rocks, thou curse to human kind,
There thou may'st wolves and brother tygers find;
Eternal exile be your righteous doom
And gnash your dragon's teeth in some sequester'd gloom
Such be the end of each relentless foe
Who feels no pity for another's woe—
So may they fall—even you, though much too late,
Shall curse the day you languish'd to be great;
Haste from the torments of the present life—
Quick, let the halter end thee or the knife;
So may destruction rush with speedy wing,
Low as yourself to drag your cruel king,
His head torn off, his hands, his feet, and all,
Deep in the dust may Dagon's image fall;
His stump alone escape the vengeful steel,
Sav'd but to grace the gibbet or the wheel.
We grieve to think your shape and ours the same!
Enjoy what comfort in this life you can,
The form you have, not feelings of a man;
68
There thou may'st wolves and brother tygers find;
Eternal exile be your righteous doom
And gnash your dragon's teeth in some sequester'd gloom
Such be the end of each relentless foe
Who feels no pity for another's woe—
So may they fall—even you, though much too late,
Shall curse the day you languish'd to be great;
Haste from the torments of the present life—
Quick, let the halter end thee or the knife;
So may destruction rush with speedy wing,
Low as yourself to drag your cruel king,
His head torn off, his hands, his feet, and all,
Deep in the dust may Dagon's image fall;
His stump alone escape the vengeful steel,
Sav'd but to grace the gibbet or the wheel.
1781
| Poems of Freneau | |