The Last Poems of Philip Freneau

A Deacon of a church hard by
Was Susan's father, rough and dry,
Advanced in years, and somewhat deaf
To which a trumpet gave relief.
This father lived a few miles back,
And not remote from Merrimack;
He had a deal of inward light,
With both his chimnies painted white,
And oftentimes his head he shook
At people of a lousy look,
And often made this shrewd remark,
A shabby pilot steers the barque.
And to his name was tacked Esquire,
A title common folks admire.
As one that joined him to the elect,
And one that made him circumspect.—
His name was Hezekiah Salem,
Whose heart and hand did never fail him,
Except, when, once, a whooping pack
Of Choctaw Indians drove him back:
And nearly had his head trepann'd
For settling on unpurchased land—
To him she goes to ask advice,
Gets—and forgets it in a trice.
SUSANNAH
Well, Father, I am on the wing
To say—a—very—serious—thing.
Elijah is quite discontented
With this same lot from you he rented.
He wants to go to Batten-Rugs.

Since here in vain he toils and tugs.
The road is long—how will it do?
And yet I dread to part with you,
Who always were so kind and good,
Supplied me cloathes, provided food.

HEZEKIAH
Speak louder, Girl—it seems to me,
Your voice has lost its usual key.

SUSANNAH
I say, in brief, we talk of late,
And have some thoughts to emigrate,
Where things will wear a better face,
To Batten-Rugs—or some such place!

HEZEKIAH

To Batten-Rugs?—and where is that?
A place I never heard of yet—
You think to go to Batten-Rugs,
No doubt, to breed and fatten hogs ...
It is a distant place, I think,
And near the Mississippi brink:—
Two thousand miles make far away;
No, Susan, Susan, you must stay.
Elijah must be, surely, mad,
To take such notions in his head.
But, did you know the Indian race,
The people of the wilderness,
The tribes that yet possess the west,
The people of a flinty breast,
With hearts as hard as granite rock,
With sculls as thick as barber's block;
You would remain contented here
Where few or none can give us fear.

A race they are, with teeth like knives,
With whom in vain the Spirit strives;
A race, whose hands are armed with claws,
And scythes are planted in their jaws.

No! I advise you to remain
Here, steady to your native plain.
Remember what the quakers say,
(Whose maxims often come in play,)
That evil to the couple clings
Who slight the day of little things.
And in your brains this proverb toss,
A rolling stone collects no moss.
A farm on Alabama's streams
Might do in Joel Barlow's dreams ...
Such rhyming dealers in romance
See Nature only in a trance.—
If you embrace Elijah's whim,
Your future fortune is with HIM—
So, rather than come snivelling back
You'd better stay at Merrimack—
If you on airy nothings fix,
Still, I'm no fool at sixty-six.

SUSANNAH

O Father! how can you reflect
On Joel, whom I so respect.
How can you thus decry the page
Of the first poet of the age?
He is an author I admire,
In reading whom I never tire ...
Recall your words—at least explain—
For I must say, and will maintain
That he, who would surpass that bard,
Must travel far, and study hard;
Must view mankind in court and camp,
And often trim the midnight lamp,

To bring, in so sublime a strain,
Columbus on the stage again.

But to go on as we began,
Elijah is no common man;
He is, at least, six feet of length,
And gifted with Goliah's strength.
Elijah says, the savage pack
Will never make him turn his back.
And, armed with staff of seasoned oak,
No mortal can endure his stroke;
Nor will the boldest chief presume
To seize one feather from his plume
Then what has such a man to fear
From such a herd as Indians are?
In boxing he is dreaded more
Than ever boxer was before;
What prowess can that force resist
Where Death resides on either fist;
Whose powerful clench, if aimed with skill,
Might leave a mark on Bunker's Hill.

HEZEKIAH
He fight the Indians with his stick!
The Indians soon would make him sick.
The Girl is crazed—one Indian yell
Would be to him a funeral bell.
The warrior whoop would stun his ear
And close at once his mad career.
No Susan, Susan you must stay:
Consider, I am old and gray;
Your mother is an ancient dame,
Your aunts, and uncles, much the same,
So, better here partake our rest
Than seek adventures in the west.

SUSANNAH
The BOOK in which we all believe
Bids woman to her husband cleave.
There is besides, another text,
To which a blessing is annexed—
It is a text that none deny,
It is—increase and multiply.
But, while we here increase our breed,
I fear they will be poor indeed,
And you would fret, and I should frown,
To see them paupers on the town.

HEZEKIAH
The Moon has surely cracked your brain,
That you discourse in such a strain.
Who taught you, hussey, thus to rave?
How many do you mean to have?
You only have Jerusha yet
And he will soon his living get.
But should a dozen to you fall
Still Providence would care for all.

SUSANNAH
To place our hopes on Providence
Is surely right, in common sense;
But, for provision on our shelves
We must depend upon ourselves.

HEZEKIAH

Enough!—I lay my strict command
That here you stay and work our land;
Elijah is in no condition
To undertake this crazy mission.
The time must come—is on its way—
When you and he will both be grey,

When every hour will bring its care
And Love be but a dull affair.—
Against that hour you may provide
Without this rambling, far and wide.
Then take advice, remain at home,
Nor scheme too much for days to come.
They may be good—they may be bad—
Be you but faithful to your lad,
Industrious, prudent, frugal, neat,
And all your fortune is complete!

Deep sunk these words in Susan's ears,
Who answered only with her tears;
She tucked her hair behind her comb,
And, sighing, went dejected home.

A considerable river in the eastern part of Massachusetts.

Baton Rouge, a military post on the Mississippi.

I grieve.

Alluding to the Columbiad, a Poem, by the late J. Barlow.

University of Virginia Library

Elijah, The New England Emigrant. No. II