The Last Poems of Philip Freneau

The traveller, after leaving the gaieties and splendor of Beaurepaire, proceeds, one afternoon in quest of Indian Sams residence in the woods.—His reception and Conversation makes the substance and subject of the following lines.

Through ups and downs, a rugged road
I steered my course for Sam's abode,
But found it not—at last the Sun
Descended to the horizon:
The people said at Beaurepaire
It lay exactly South from there,
Nor so remote from that abode
(Though far from any public road)
That, if I kept an Indian track,
That Indians used for ages back
I would be sure, on that blind way,
To reach him ere the close of day.

The Indian path was blind indeed,
O'er run with shrubs and hemlock weed,
My stockings torn, and scratched my face
I soon was in a shocking case;
But thanked my stars, as matters were,
I was not bound for Beaurepaire.

So when the shades of night came on,
And every glimpse of day was gone,
I looked above and saw the stars,
And glanced at Jupiter and Mars.
My best respects to these I paid,
Thank'd them, but wanted not their aid.

At last, I saw that gleaming star
Which sailors, most of all, revere;
The sacred star, which marks the pole,
Round which the neighbouring lanthorns roll;
Which always keeps its wonted steep
Nor hides her glory in the deep:
He shone serene, benign, and clear,
Fix'd in the tail of the little Bear,
Though some have thought, profane and blind,
A nobler place might be assigned.

On him I turn'd my back, and then,
Like thousands of ungrateful men,
Enjoy'd his help—and taught my horse
To crawl, exact, a southward course.

At last, amidst the mists of night,
I saw, far off, a gleam of light,
A will a-wisp, upon the wing,
I fear'd—a some such develish thing:
But, passing through a tuft of trees
Soft murmuring to the midnight breeze,
Conviction strong and stronger grew
That what I sought was now in view.

Approaching to the savage door
I look'd behind, and look'd before,
I looked to east and look'd to west,
And north and south—and look'd my best,
In hopes to spy some friendly hand
To black my boots and smooth my band,
To brush my hat, and darn my hose,
And lend some other help—God knows—
But recollected, in a trice,
I need not, now be over nice
While wandering in a forest drear,
A dozen miles from Beaurepaire.

An Indian dog began to bark
As if to say—“Stand off ... 'tis dark!
None I admit to yonder yard
Till Sam is roused, and on his guard.”

And soon a whoop assailed my ear
In words of thunder, who comes there?

“I am a stranger in the wilds,
And come a wondering, leagues and miles;
I come from sops, I come from fools,
I come from folks who eat by rules.—
From those who rise from hopping clods
To be advanced to demi-gods;
I come from ladies, newly made,
From ditchers born that shun a spade,
I come, my friend, from I know where—
I come half-starved, from Beaurepaire!”

“And what's your business in this wood?—
Come you for evil or for good—
You come, you say from Beaurepaire!—
Good man, what devil took you there?—
I sell them game, and let me tell you
They never pay me half the value.
They are a lofty minded sett,
Of high designs—but deep in debt—
Come in, come in!—admit him Brave
The man shall eat the best I have,
And that is squirrels killed this day,
And venison roasted my own way.
I am a chief of little fame
We-quallis is my Indian name,
By that I am by most address'd
But Sam's intended for a Jest.

To none alive I make my court,
And otter hunting is my sport,
That means my name, of long descent,
Ere white men found this continent.—
Your horses belly shall be stored
With such as Indians can afford;
I am not arm'd with tigers claws,
No scythes are planted in my haws,
And yet your books, your spies, your priests
Report us worse than savage beasts.”

My horse was to a hovel led,
Dry leaves were strewed to make his bed,
And planty, straight, before him placed;
Wild oats were suited to his taste,
Or hunger made him relish well
What Indians neither buy nor sell;
He had been doom'd at Beaurepaire
Camelion-like to feed on air,
And, like his master, lean enough
No doubt, was pleased to scamper off.

That service done he led me in
A wigwam, free from noise and din;
On rushes slept the madam Squaw
Her pillow shew'd a mat of straw
And three poppooses near her lay
All painted in the Indian way.—
The furniture of this abode
Would hardly make a shoulder load,
But yet enough for such as these
Whom very little serves to please;
It was not rich, and something rare,
But quite unfit for Beaurepaire.

Three days I pass'd with honest Sam,
Regaling on his venison ham,

His buckwheat cakes and squirrel broth
On tables void of table cloth:
He seem'd a warrior and a sage,
And there I could have pass'd an age,
For all was calm, serene and free
The picture of simplicity.

And, when inclining to depart
And almost with a heavy heart;
Preparing to resume my way,
He said, “There's nothing, friend, to pay!
I shew you to the Turnpike road
Too near, alas! to this abode:
And; when returning from the town
Manhattan of such high renown,
Be it your first and greatest care
To keep aloof from Beaurepaire;
My heart is good—my face is plain,
You are welcome, friend, to—call again.”

The Indian dogs name in the Oneida language, winni-pong, or Big Captain.

Indian children, under four years of age.

University of Virginia Library

The Arrival at Indian Sam's (Or, Wee-Quali's) Wigwam