 | Poems of Freneau |  |
To A CONCEALED ROYALIST
On a Virulent Attack
“We have force to crumble you into dust, although you were as hard as rocks, adamant, or jasper.”
When round the bark the howling tempest raves
Tossed in the conflict of a thousand waves,
The lubber landsmen weep, complain, and sigh,
And on the pilot's skill, or heaven, rely;
Lurk in their holes, astonished and aghast,
Dreading the moment that must be their last.
Tossed in the conflict of a thousand waves,
The lubber landsmen weep, complain, and sigh,
And on the pilot's skill, or heaven, rely;
Lurk in their holes, astonished and aghast,
Dreading the moment that must be their last.
The tempest done—their terror also ceases,
And up they come, and shew their shameless faces,
At once feel bold, and tell the pilot, too,
He did no more than they—themselves—could do!
And up they come, and shew their shameless faces,
At once feel bold, and tell the pilot, too,
He did no more than they—themselves—could do!
A FOE TO TYRANTS! ONE your pen restores:—
There is a TYRANT WHOM YOUR SOUL ADORES:
And every line you write too plainly shows,
Your heart is hostile to that TYRANT'S FOES.
There is a TYRANT WHOM YOUR SOUL ADORES:
And every line you write too plainly shows,
Your heart is hostile to that TYRANT'S FOES.
What, worse than folly, urged this genius dull
With CHURCHILL'S wreathes to shade his leaden scull:
So, midnight darkness union claims with light:
So oil and water in one mass unite:—
No more your rage in plundered verse repeat,
Sink into prose—even there no safe retreat,
REED'S patriot fame to distant years may last,
When rancorous reptiles to the dogs are cast,
Or, where oblivion spreads her weary wings,
Lost in the lumber of forgotten things;
And none shall ask, nor wish to know, nor care,
Who—what their names—or when they lived—or where.
With CHURCHILL'S wreathes to shade his leaden scull:
So, midnight darkness union claims with light:
So oil and water in one mass unite:—
No more your rage in plundered verse repeat,
Sink into prose—even there no safe retreat,
88
When rancorous reptiles to the dogs are cast,
Or, where oblivion spreads her weary wings,
Lost in the lumber of forgotten things;
And none shall ask, nor wish to know, nor care,
Who—what their names—or when they lived—or where.
1782
| Poems of Freneau | |