Read Ebook: The Poems of Philip Freneau Poet of the American Revolution. Volume 3 (of 3) by Freneau Philip Morin Pattee Fred Lewis Editor

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Ebook has 2667 lines and 139952 words, and 54 pages

A curse on this dejected place Where cold, and hot, and wet, and dry, And stagnant ponds of ample space The putrid steams of death supply.

Since here I paced on weary steed Ah, blame me not, should I repine That sprightly girl, nor social bed, Nor jovial glass this night is mine.

The landlord, gouged in either eye, Here drains his bottle to the dregs, Or borrows Susan's pipe, while she Prepares the bacon and the eggs.

Jamaica, that inspires the soul, In these abodes no time has seen To dart its generous influence round, To kindle wit and kill the spleen.

The squire of this disheartening inn Affords to none the generous bowl, Displays no Bacchus on the sign To warm the heart and cheer the soul.

To cyder, drawn from tilted cask, While each a fond attention paid All grieved to see the empty flask, Its substance gone, its strength decayed.

A rambling hag, in dismal notes Screeched out a song, to cheer my grief; Two lads their dull adventures told, A shepherd each--and each a thief.

Dame justice here in rigour reigns-- Each has on each the griping paw: Whoe'er with them a bargain makes, Scheme as he will, it ends in law.

With scraps of songs and smutty words Each lodger here adorns the walls: The wanton muse no pencil gives, A coal her mean idea scrawls.

No merry thought, no flash of wit Was scrawled by this unseemly crew, With pain I read the words they writ Immodest and immoral too.

The god of verse, the poet's friend, Whom Nature all indulgent finds-- That god of verse will never lend His powers to such degraded minds.

In murmuring streams no chrystal wave To cheer the wretched hamlet flows; But frowning to the distant bog Rosanna with the pitcher goes.

At dusk of eve the tardy treat Was placed on board of knotty pine; Each gaping gazed, to see me eat While round me lay the slumbering swine.

Unblessed be she, whose aukward hand Before me laid the mouldy pone; May she still miss the joyous kiss, Condemned to fret and sleep alone.

The horse that bore me on my way Around me cast a wishful eye, He looked, and saw no manger near, And hung his head, and seemed to sigh.

At stump of pine, for want of stall, All night, beneath a dripping tree, Not fed with oats, but filled with wind, And buckwheat straw, alone stood he.

Discouraged at so vile a treat, Yet pleased to see the approaching dawn, In haste, we left this dreary place, Nor staid to drink their dear Yoppon.

May travellers dread to wander here, Unless on penance they be bound-- O may they never venture near, Such fleas and filthiness abound.

But should ye come--be short your stay, For Lent is here forever kept-- Depart, ye wretches, haste away, Nor stop to sleep--where I have slept.

THE WANDERER

As Southward bound to Indian isles O'er lonely seas he held his way, A songster of the feather'd kind Approach'd, with golden plumage gay:

"Sad pilgrim on a watery waste, What cruel tempest has compell'd To leave so far your native grove, To perish on this liquid field!

Not such a dismal swelling scene But crystal brooks and groves of green, Dear rambling bird, were made for thee.

Ah, why amid some flowery mead Did you not stay, where late you play'd: Not thus forsake the cypress grove That lent its kind protecting shade.

In vain you spread your weary wings To shun the hideous gulph below; Our barque can be your only hope-- But man you justly deem your foe.

Now hovering near, you stoop to lodge Where yonder lofty canvas swells-- Again take wing--refuse our aid, And rather trust the ruffian gales.

But Nature tires! your toils are vain-- Could you on stronger pinions rise Than eagles have--for days to come All you could see are seas and skies.

Again she comes, again she lights, And casts a pensive look below-- Weak wanderer, trust the traitor, Man, And take the help that we bestow."

Down to his side, with circling flight, She flew, and perch'd, and linger'd there; But, worn with wandering, droop'd her wing, And life resign'd in empty air.

ON THE DEMOLITION OF FORT-GEORGE

In New-York--1790

As giants once, in hopes to rise, Heaped up their mountains to the skies; With Pelion piled on Ossa, strove To reach the eternal throne of Jove;

So here the hands of ancient days Their fortress from the earth did raise, On whose proud heights, proud men to please, They mounted guns and planted trees.

Those trees to lofty stature grown-- All is not right!--they must come down, Nor longer waste their wonted shade Where Colden slept, or Tryon strayed.

Let him be sad that placed them there,-- We shall a youthful race prepare; Another grove shall bloom, we trust, When this lies prostrate in the dust.

Where Dutchmen once, in ages past, Huge walls and ramparts round them cast, New fabrics raised, on new design, Gay streets and palaces shall shine.

To foreign kings no more a slave No flags we rear, we feign no mirth, Nor prize the day that gave them birth.

While time degrades Palmyra low, Augusta lifts her lofty brow-- While Europe falls to wars a prey, Her monarchs here, should have no sway.

Another George shall here reside, While Hudson's bold, unfettered tide Well pleased to see this chief so nigh, With livelier aspect passes by.

Along his margin, fresh and clean, Ere long shall belles and beaux be seen, Through moon-light shades, delighted, stray, To view the islands and the bay.

Of evening dews no more afraid, Reclining in some favourite shade, Each nymph, in rapture with her trees, Shall sigh to quit the western breeze.

To barren hills far southward shoved, These noisy guns shall be removed, No longer here a vain expense, Where time has proved them no defence.--

Advance, bright days! make haste to crown With such fair scenes this honoured town.-- Freedom shall find her charter clear, And plant her seat of commerce here.

"At the South western part of this city formerly stood a strong fort, with stone walls, near thirty feet in height, upon which were mounted a considerable number of large pieces of cannon. This fortress was originally constructed by the Dutch possessors of the place to defend the town, then in its infancy, from the insults of pirates on the one side, and the aborigines of the country on the other. After this territory fell into the hands of the English nation, the fort was at different times enlarged, strengthened and repaired, and was the usual place of residence for the British Governors, who, in the true spirit of European royalty and despotism chose to live separate from their fellow-citizens, and in several instances treated them with a degree of contempt and disrespect proportionate to the confidence they had in the number of their cannon, and in the strength of the walls and ramparts that surrounded them.

"History mentions that in the year 1790, fourteen years after this republic had shaken off its yoke of foreign bondage, this fort was totally demolished by an edict of the Senate, and the space it occupied employed to better purpose in making room for those elegant streets and buildings which now adorn this quarter of the city."

The poem appeared in the issue of March 9, 1790, and was entitled "On the proposed demolition of Fort George, in this City." The text of the 1809 edition has been followed.

CONGRESS HALL, N. Y.

With eager step and wrinkled brow, The busy sons of care To Congress Hall repair.

In order placed, they patient wait To seize each word that flies, From what they hear, they sigh or smile, Look cheerful, grave, or wise.

Within these walls the doctrines taught Are of such vast concern, That all the world, with one consent, Here strives to live--and learn.

The timorous heart, that cautious shuns All churches, but its own, No more observes its wonted rules; But ventures here, alone.

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