 | Poems of Freneau |  |
EPISTLE
From DR. FRANKLIN (deceased) to his Poetical Panegyrists, on some of their Absurd Compliments.
“Good Poets, who so full of pain,
Are you sincere—or do you feign?
Love for your tribe I never had,
Nor penned three stanzes, good or bad.
Are you sincere—or do you feign?
Love for your tribe I never had,
Nor penned three stanzes, good or bad.
At funerals, sometimes, grief appears,
Where legacies have purchased tears:
'Tis folly to be sad for nought,
From me you never gained a groat.
Where legacies have purchased tears:
'Tis folly to be sad for nought,
From me you never gained a groat.
To better trades I turned my views,
And never meddled with the muse;
Great things I did for rising States,
And kept the lightning from some pates.
And never meddled with the muse;
Great things I did for rising States,
And kept the lightning from some pates.
This grand discovery, you adore it,
But ne'er will be the better for it:
You still are subject to those fires,
For poets' houses have no spires.
But ne'er will be the better for it:
You still are subject to those fires,
For poets' houses have no spires.
Philosophers are famed for pride;
But, pray, be modest—when I died,
No “sighs disturbed old ocean's bed,”
No “Nature wept” for Franklin dead!
But, pray, be modest—when I died,
No “sighs disturbed old ocean's bed,”
No “Nature wept” for Franklin dead!
105
That day, on which I left the coast,
A beggar-man was also lost:
If “Nature wept,” you must agree
She wept for him—as well as me.
A beggar-man was also lost:
If “Nature wept,” you must agree
She wept for him—as well as me.
There's reason even in telling lies—
In such profusion of her “sighs,”
She was too sparing of a tear—
In Carolina, all was clear:
In such profusion of her “sighs,”
She was too sparing of a tear—
In Carolina, all was clear:
And, if there fell some snow and sleet,
Why must it be my winding sheet?
Snows oft have cloathed the April plain,
Have melted, and will melt again.
Why must it be my winding sheet?
Snows oft have cloathed the April plain,
Have melted, and will melt again.
Poets, I pray you, say no more,
Or say what Nature said before;
That reason should your pens direct,
Or else you pay me no respect.
Or say what Nature said before;
That reason should your pens direct,
Or else you pay me no respect.
Let reason be your constant rule,
And Nature, trust me, is no fool—
When to the dust great men she brings,
“MAKE HER DO—SOME UNCOMMON THINGS.”
And Nature, trust me, is no fool—
When to the dust great men she brings,
“MAKE HER DO—SOME UNCOMMON THINGS.”
1790
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