 | The Last Poems of Philip Freneau |  |
109
Answer to a Letter of Despondency
When fortune quits us, or our strength decays,
Pain is our lot, and Patience is our praise.
Pain is our lot, and Patience is our praise.
Few words are best—the wind blows cold,
Christmas, they say, will soon be here:
This truth the Almanacs foretold;
Whose sage predictions last—a year.
Christmas, they say, will soon be here:
This truth the Almanacs foretold;
Whose sage predictions last—a year.
What need I say—can I forget
Your doleful letter came by post,
By which I learn, with much regret,
You are the next thing to a ghost.
Your doleful letter came by post,
By which I learn, with much regret,
You are the next thing to a ghost.
No longer bound to distant lands,
Pursuing wealth, to lose repose,
To the bleak winds, from barren sands
I give the story of your woes.
Pursuing wealth, to lose repose,
To the bleak winds, from barren sands
I give the story of your woes.
The aching heart and trembling hand
To plainly mark your gloomy page,
That gives your friend to understand
Your time grows short upon our stage.
To plainly mark your gloomy page,
That gives your friend to understand
Your time grows short upon our stage.
If gouts attack, or frosts prevail,
Still flows for you the mineral spring,
That may in time, though doctors fail,
A renovated system bring.
Still flows for you the mineral spring,
That may in time, though doctors fail,
A renovated system bring.
The northern geese have winged their way
To feast a while at Pontchartrain,
Each lengthening night, and shortening day
To some give pleasure, others pain.
To feast a while at Pontchartrain,
Each lengthening night, and shortening day
To some give pleasure, others pain.
110
On tortured nerves, your withered frame,
Have palsies made such rude attacks?
So thin you grow, I almost dream
Wild geese might bring you on their backs.
Have palsies made such rude attacks?
So thin you grow, I almost dream
Wild geese might bring you on their backs.
Throughout this interval of time
While torpid nature takes her rest,
Each claims the right—without a crime—
To act the part that suits him best.
While torpid nature takes her rest,
Each claims the right—without a crime—
To act the part that suits him best.
To storm upon the mountain's brow
To some affords supreme delight;
Others contrive, they best know how,
To spend the day, or cheat the night.
To some affords supreme delight;
Others contrive, they best know how,
To spend the day, or cheat the night.
If in this whirligig of things,
When states decline, or empires fail,
You ask, while chained to Balls-town springs,
What news from Europe by the mail?
When states decline, or empires fail,
You ask, while chained to Balls-town springs,
What news from Europe by the mail?
All I can tell you may have read
Five hundred times in public print;
State news—how Britain's queen is dead,
Divorced from hearts as hard as flint.
Five hundred times in public print;
State news—how Britain's queen is dead,
Divorced from hearts as hard as flint.
How George the fourth has Ireland seen,
And drank his glass with honest Teague,
Has dined, perhaps, at Aberdeen,
And with Scotch lassies held intrigue.
And drank his glass with honest Teague,
Has dined, perhaps, at Aberdeen,
And with Scotch lassies held intrigue.
In wedlock some have joined their hands,
Another race appears of course;
While some regret its tiresome bands
And teaze our statesmen for divorce.
Another race appears of course;
While some regret its tiresome bands
And teaze our statesmen for divorce.
That some are hang'd I scarce need say,
And much, no doubt, against their will;
Others are in a likely way,
Next year, to turn the Treading Mill.
And much, no doubt, against their will;
Others are in a likely way,
Next year, to turn the Treading Mill.
111
The world of news, shall I detail,
I must transmit a long Gazette;
Your patience and your eyes would fail
To read it half—and half forget.
I must transmit a long Gazette;
Your patience and your eyes would fail
To read it half—and half forget.
Your blood yet flows in youthful veins;
Forsake the springs while yet you can,
Trod mountain roads, and rough domains,
And be, once more, the active man.
Forsake the springs while yet you can,
Trod mountain roads, and rough domains,
And be, once more, the active man.
The spleen is half your sad complaint:
Be off—reject the nauseous draft,
Which many a sinner, many a saint
Have quaff'd, and cursed it while they quaff'd.
Be off—reject the nauseous draft,
Which many a sinner, many a saint
Have quaff'd, and cursed it while they quaff'd.
What can be done—what yet remains?—
Rouse up your spirits—and if here
You choose to meet in Shrewsbury plains
Your friend—stand cyder—and small beer.
Rouse up your spirits—and if here
You choose to meet in Shrewsbury plains
Your friend—stand cyder—and small beer.
Vast seas in sight; great news shall tell;
Who can their utmost depths explore?
Who views their foam, and does not feel
Constrained their author to adore!
Who can their utmost depths explore?
Who views their foam, and does not feel
Constrained their author to adore!
Advance—a welcome frank and kind
The Friends will give—nor much the worse
If, with what else you bring, they find
A generous heart—and weighty Purse.
The Friends will give—nor much the worse
If, with what else you bring, they find
A generous heart—and weighty Purse.
| The Last Poems of Philip Freneau | |