The Poems of Philip Freneau, Poet of the American Revolution. Volume 1 (of 3)

[B] Capt. Wallace. —Freneau's note. Sir James Wallace was a prominent naval officer during the Revolution. In 1774-5 he commanded the Rose, a 20-gun frigate, and greatly annoyed the people of Rhode Island by his detention of shipping and his seizure of private property. His severity and activity made him greatly detested by the colonists during the entire Revolution.

Epilogue

What are these strangers from a foreign isle,That we should fear their hate or court their smile? —Pride sent them here, pride blasted in the bud,255Who, if she can, will build her throne in blood,With slaughtered millions glut her tearless eyes,And bid even virtue fall, that she may rise.What deep offence has fired a monarch's rage?What moon-struck madness seized the brain of Gage?260Laughs not the soul when an imprisoned crewAffect to pardon those they can't subdue,Though thrice repulsed, and hemmed up to their stations,Yet issue pardons, oaths, and proclamations! —Too long our patient country wears their chains,265Too long our wealth all-grasping Britain drains.Why still a handmaid to that distant land?Why still subservient to their proud command?Britain the bold, the generous, and the braveStill treats our country like the meanest slave,270Her haughty lords already share the prey,Live on our labours, and with scorn repay; —Rise, sleeper, rise, while yet the power remains,And bind their nobles and their chiefs in chains:Bent on destructive plans, they scorn our plea,275'Tis our own efforts that must make us free —Born to contend, our lives we place at stake,And rise to conquerors by the stand we make. —The time may come when strangers rule no more,Nor cruel mandates vex from Britain's shore,280When commerce may extend her shortened wing,And her rich freights from every climate bring,When mighty towns shall flourish free and great,Vast their dominion, opulent their state,When one vast cultivated region teems285From ocean's side to Mississippi streams,While each enjoys his vineyard's peaceful shade,And even the meanest has no foe to dread.And you, who, far from Liberty detained,Wear out existence in some slavish land – 290Forsake those shores, a self-ejected throng,And armed for vengeance, here resent the wrong:Come to our climes, where unchained rivers flow,And loftiest groves, and boundless forests grow.Here the blest soil your future care demands;295Come, sweep the forests from these shaded lands,And the kind earth shall every toil repay,And harvests flourish as the groves decay.O heaven-born Peace, renew thy wonted charms —Far be this rancour, and this din of arms – 300To warring lands return, an honoured guest,And bless our crimson shore among the rest —Long may Britannia rule our hearts again,Rule as she ruled in George the Second's reign,May ages hence her growing grandeur see,305And she be glorious – but ourselves as free!

THE SILENT ACADEMY98

Subjected to despotic sway,Compelled all mandates to obey,Once in this dome I humbly bowed,A member of the murmuring crowd,Where Pedro Blanco held his reign,The tyrant of a small domain.By him a numerous herd controuled,The smart, the stupid, and the bold,Essayed some little share to gainOf the vast treasures of his brain;Some learned the Latin, some the Greek,And some in flowery style to speak;Some writ their themes, while others read,And some with Euclid stuffed the head;Some toiled in verse, and some in prose,And some in logick sought repose;Some learned to cypher, some to draw,And some began to study law.But all is ruined, all is done,The tutor to the shades is gone,And all his pupils, led astray,Have each found out a different way.Some are in chains of wedlock bound,And some are hanged and some are drowned;Some are advanced to posts and places,And some in pulpits screw their faces;Some at the bar a living gain,Perplexing what they should explain;To soldiers turned, a bolder bandRepel the invaders of the land;Some to the arts of physic bred,Despatch their patients to the dead;Some plough the land, and some the sea,And some are slaves, and some are free;Some court the great, and some the muse,And some subsist by mending shoes —While others – but so vast the throng,The Cobblers shall conclude my song.

LINES TO A COASTING CAPTAIN99

Shipwrecked and Nearly Drowned on Hatteras ShoalsSo long harassed by winds and seas,'Tis time, at length, to take your ease,Change ruffian waves for quiet groves100And war's loud blast for sylvan loves.In all your rounds, 'tis passing strangeNo fair one tempts you to a change —Madness it is, you must agree,To lodge alone 'till forty-three.Old Plato said, no blessing hereCould equal Love – if but sincere;And writings penn'd by heaven, have shownThat man can ne'er be blest alone.O'er life's meridian have you pass'd;The night of death advances fast!No props you plant for your decline,No partner soothes these cares of thine.If Neptune's self, who ruled the main,Kept sea-nymphs there to ease his pain;Yourself, who skim that empire o'er,Might surely keep one nymph on shore.Myrtilla fair, in yonder grove,Has so much beauty, so much love,That, on her lip, the meanest flyIs happier far than you or I.

TO THE AMERICANS101

On the Rumoured Approach of the Hessian Forces,Waldeckers, &c. (Published 1775)

The blast of death! the infernal guns prepare —"Rise with the storm and all its dangers share."Occasioned by General Gage's Proclamation that the Provinces were in a state of Rebellion, and out of the King's protection.102Rebels you are – the British champion103 cries —Truth, stand thou forth! – and tell the wretch, He lies: —Rebels! – and see this mock imperial lordAlready threats these rebels with the cord.104The hour draws nigh, the glass is almost run,When truth will shine, and ruffians105 be undone;When this base miscreant106 will forbear to sneer,And curse his taunts and bitter insults here.107If to controul the cunning of a knave,Freedom respect, and scorn the name of slave;If to protest against a tyrant's laws,And arm for vengeance in a righteous cause,Be deemed Rebellion – 'tis a harmless thing:This bug-bear name, like death, has lost its sting.Americans! at freedom's fane adore!But trust to Britain, and her flag,108 no more;The generous genius of their isle has fled,And left a mere impostor in his stead.If conquered, rebels (their Scotch records show),109Receive no mercy from the parent [A]foe;110Nay, even the grave, that friendly haunt of peace,(Where Nature gives the woes of man to cease,)Vengeance will search – and buried corpses thereBe raised, to feast the vultures of the air —Be hanged on gibbets, such a war they wage —Such are the devils that swell our souls with rage!111If Britain conquers, help us, heaven, to fly:Lend us your wings, ye ravens of the sky; —If Britain conquers – we exist no more;These lands will redden with their children's gore,Who, turned to slaves, their fruitless toils will moan,Toils in these fields that once they called their own!To arms! to arms! and let the murdering swordDecide who best deserves the hangman's cord:Nor think the hills of Canada too bleakWhen desperate Freedom is the prize you seek;For that, the call of honour bids you goO'er frozen lakes and mountains wrapt in snow:112No toils should daunt the nervous and the bold,They scorn all heat or wave-congealing cold.Haste! – to your tents in iron fetters bringThese slaves, that serve a tyrant and a king;113So just, so virtuous is your cause, I say,Hell must prevail if Britain gains the day.

[A] After the battle of Culloden: See Smollett's History of England. —Freneau's note.

THE VERNAL AGUE

Where the pheasant114 roosts at night,Lonely, drowsy, out of sight,115Where the evening breezes sighSolitary, there stray I.Close along the shaded stream,Source of many a youthful dream,Where branchy cedars dim the day,There I muse, and there I stray.Yet, what can please amid this bower,That charmed the eye for many an hour!The budding leaf is lost to me,And dead the bloom on every tree.The winding stream, that glides along,The lark, that tunes her early song,The mountain's brow, the sloping vale,The murmuring of the western gale,Have lost their charms! – the blooms are gone!Trees put a darker aspect on,The stream disgusts that wanders by,And every zephyr brings a sigh.Great guardian of our feeble kind!Restoring Nature, lend thine aid!And o'er the features of the mindRenew those colours, that must fade,When vernal suns forbear to roll,And endless winter chills the soul.

GENERAL GAGE'S CONFESSION116

Being the Substance of His Excellency's Last Conference with hisGhostly Father, Father FrancisCompassion! – 'tis a stranger to my heart,Or if it comes – unwelcome guest depart, —Boston, farewell, thy final doom is pass'd,North hears my prayers, and I'm recall'd at last;117Sailor on high thy canvas wings display,Howl, ye west winds, and hurry me away;Rise, boisterous clouds, and bellowing from on high,Whisk me along, ye tyrants of the sky —Quick! let me leave these friendless shores that shedTen thousand curses on my hated head. —But why so swift, why ask I gales so strong,Since conscience, cruel conscience, goes along?Must conscience rack my bosom o'er the deep?I live in hell while she forbears to sleep;Come, Father Francis, be my heart display'd,My burden'd conscience asks thy pious aid;Come, if confession can discharge my sin,I will confess till hell itself shall grin,And own the world has found in me againA second Nero; nay, another Cain.FriarWhy swells thy breast with such distressing woe?Your honour surely has the sense to knowYour sins are venial – trust me when I sayYour deepest sins may all be purged away. —But if misfortunes rouse this nightly grief,Sure Friar Francis can afford relief:I thought e're this that leaders of renownWould scorn to bow to giddy fortune's frown;See yon bright star (the dewy eve begun)Walks his gay round and sparkles in the sun;Faints not, encircled by the ambient blaze,Tho' pestering clouds may sometimes blunt his rays;But come, confession makes the conscience light,Confess, my son, and be absolv'd this night.GageFirst of the first, I tell it in your ear(For tho' we whisper, heaven, you know, can hear)This faultless country ne'er deserv'd my hate;Just are its pleas; unmerited its fate.When North ordained me to this thankless place,My conscience rose and star'd me in the face,And spite of all I did to quench its flame,Convinc'd me I was wrong before I came. —But what, alas, can mortal heroes do,They are but men, as sacred writings shew, —Tho' I refus'd, they urged me yet the more,Nay, even the king descended to implore,And often with him in his closet pent,Was plagu'd to death to rule this armament;Who could a monarch's favourite wish deny?I yielded just for peace – ay, faith did I —If this be sin, O tell me, reverend sage,What will, alas, become of guilty Gage?FriarIf this be sin – 'tis sin, I make no doubt,But trust me, honour'd sir, I'll help you out,Even tho' your arms had rag'd from town to town,And mow'd like flags these rebel nations down,And joyful bell return'd the murdering din,And you yourself the master butcher been, —All should be well – from sins like this, I ween,A dozen masses shall discharge you clean;Small pains in purgatory you'll endure,And hell, you know, is only for the poor,Pay well the priest and fear no station there,For heaven must yield to vehemence of prayer.GageHeaven grant that this may be my smallest sin;Alas, good friar, I'm yet deeper in —Come round my bed, with friendly groans condole,To gratify my paunch, I've wrong'd my soul;Arms I may wield and murder by command,Spread devastation thro' a guiltless land,Whole ranks to hell with howling cannon sweep —But what had I to do with stealing sheep?118I've read my orders, conn'd them o'er with care,But not a word of stealing sheep is there;Come, holy friar, can you make a shiftTo help a sinner at so dead a lift?Or must I onward to perdition go,With theft and murder to complete my woe?FriarMurder – nay, hold! – your honour is too sad,Things are not yet, I hope, become so bad,Murder, indeed – you've stole, and that I know,But, sir, believe me, you've not struck a blow;Some few Americans have bled, 'tis true,But 'twas the soldiers killed them, and not you.GageWell said, but will this subtile reasoning stand?Did not the soldiers murder by command,By my command? – Friar, they did, I swear,And I must answer for their deeds, I fear.FriarLet each man answer for his proper deed,From sins of murder I pronounce you freed,And this same reasoning will your honour keepFrom imputations of purloining sheep:Wallace for this to Rome shall post away,And for this crying sin severely pay,And tho' his zeal may think his penance slight,Hair cloth and logs shall be his bed at night,Coarse fare by day – till his repeated groansConvince the world he for this sin atones.GageAlas, poor Wallace, how I pity thee! —But let him go – 'tis better him than me;Yes, let him harbour in some convent there,And fleas monastic bite him till he swear;But, friar, have you patience for the rest?Half my transgressions are not yet confest.FriarNot half! – you are a harmless man, I'm told —Pray, cut them short – the supper will be cold.GageSome devil, regardless of exalted station,In evil hour assail'd me with temptation,To issue forth a damned proclamation,What prince, what king, from Belzebub is free,He tempted Judas, and has tempted me!This, this, O friar, was a deadly flaw,This for the civil founded martial law,119This crime will Gage to Lucifer consign,And purgatory must for this be mine.Next – and for this I breathe my deepest sigh,Ah cruel, flinty, hard, remorseless I! —How could I crowd my dungeons dark and lowWith wounded captives of our injur'd foe?How could my heart, more hard than hardened steel,Laugh at the pangs that mangled captives feel?Why sneer'd I at my fellow men distrest,Why banished pity from this iron breast!O friar, could heaven approve my acting so,Heaven still to mercy swift, to vengeance slow? —O no – you say, then cease your soothing chat,Cowards are cruel, I can instance that. —But hold! why did I, when the fact was done,Deny it all to gallant Washington?Why did I stuff the epistolary pageWith vile invectives only worthy Gage?120Come, friar, help – shall I recant and sayI writ my letter on a drunken day?How will it sound, if men should chance to tellA drunken hero can compose so well?FriarYour fears are groundless, give me all the blame,I writ the letter, you but sign'd your name,Nor let the proclamation cloud your mind,'Twas I compos'd it and you only sign'd. —I, Friar Francis – papist tho' I be,You private papists can't but value me;Your sins in Lethe shall be swallowed up,I'll clear you, if you please, before we sup.GageNay, clear me not – tho' I should cross the brine,And pay my vows in distant Palestine,Or land in Spain, a stranger poor and bare,And rove on foot a wretched pilgrim there,And let my eyes in streams perpetual flow,Where great Messiah dy'd so long ago,And wash his sacred footsteps with my tears,And pay for masses fifty thousand years,All would not do – my monarch I've obey'd,And now go home, perhaps to lose my head; —Pride sent me here, pride blasted in the bud,Which, if it can, will build its throne in blood,With slaughter'd millions glut its tearless eyes,And make all nature fall that it may rise; —Come, let's embark, your holy whining cease,Come, let's away, I'll hang myself for peace:So Pontius Pilate for his murder'd LordIn his own bosom sheath'd the deadly sword —Tho' he confess'd and wash'd his hands beside,His heart condemn'd him and the monster dy'd.

THE DISTREST SHEPHERDESS121

or, Mariana's Complaint for the Death of DamonWritten 1775What madness compell'd my dear shepherd to goTo the siege of Quebec, and distract me with woe!My heart is so full, it would kill me to tellHow he died on the banks of the river Sorel.O river Sorel! Thou didst hear him complain,When dying he languish'd, and called me in vain!When, pierc'd by the Briton he went to repel,He sunk on the shores of the river Sorel.O cruel misfortune, my hopes to destroy:He has left me alone with my Colin, his boy;With sorrow I see him, with tears my eyes swell;Shall we go, my sweet babe, to the river Sorel?But why should I wander, and give him such pain?My Damon will ne'er see his Colin again:To wander so far where the wild Indians dwell,We should faint ere we came to the river Sorel.But even to see the pale corpse of my dearWould give me such rapture, such pleasure sincere!I'll go, my dear boy, and my grief I will tellTo the willows that grow by the river Sorel.How shall I distinguish my shepherd's dear graveAmidst the long forest that darkens the wave: —Perhaps they could give him no tomb when he fell;Perhaps he is sunk in the river Sorel.He was a dear fellow! – O, had he remain'd!For he was uneasy whene'er I complain'd;He call'd me his charmer, and call'd me his belle,What a folly to die on the banks of Sorel!Then let me remain in my lonely retreat;My shepherd departed I never shall meet —Here's Billy O'Bluster – I love him as well,And Damon may stay at the river Sorel.

MARS AND HYMEN122

Occasioned by the separation of a young widow from a young military lover, of the troops sent to attack Fort Chamblee, in Canada; in which expedition he lost his life [1775]

Persons of the Poem– Lucinda, Damon, ThyrsisDamonWhy do we talk of shaded bowers,When frosts, my fair one, chill the plain,And nights are cold, and long the hoursThat damp the ardour of the swain,Who, parting from his rural fire,All pleasure doth forego —And here and there,And everywhere,Pursues the invading foe.Yes, we must rest on frosts and snows!No season shuts up our campaign!Hard as the rocks, we dare opposeThe autumnal, or the wintery reign.Alike to us, the winds that blowIn summer's season, gay,Or those that raveOn Hudson's wave,And drift his ice away.Winter and war may change the scene!The ball may pierce, the frost may chill;And dire misfortunes intervene,But freedom must be powerful still,To drive these Britons from our shore,Who come with sail, who come with oar,So cruel and unkind,With servile chain, who strive in vain,Our freeborn souls to bind.                         [Exit]Lucinda (two months after)They scold me, and tell me I must not complain,To part a few weeks with my favourite swain!He goes to the battle! – and leaves me to mourn —And tell me – and tell me – and will he return?123When he left me, he kiss'd me – and said, My sweet dear,In less than a month I again will be here;But still I can hardly my sorrows adjourn —You may call me a witch – if ever I return.124I said, My dear soldier, I beg you would stay;But he, with his farmers,125 went strutting away —With anguish and sorrow my bosom did burn,And I wept – for I thought he would never return.126ThyrsisFairest of the female train,You must seek another swain,Damon will not come again!All his toils are over!As you prized him, to excess,Your loss is great, I will confess,But, lady, yield not to distress —I will be your lover.LucindaNot all the swains the land can shew,(If Damon is not living now)127Can from my bosom drive my woe,Or bid a second passion glow; —For Damon has possession;Not all the gifts that wealth can bring,Nor all the airs that you can sing,Nor all the music of the stringCan banish his impression.ThyrsisWedlock and death too often provePernicious to the fires of Love:With equal strength they both combineHearts best united128 to disjoin:Hence ardent loves too soon remit;Thus die the fires that Cupid lit.Female tears and April snowSudden come and sudden go.Since his head is levelled low,Cease remembrance of your woe.Can it be in reason foundTo be crazy for Love's wound?129Must you live in sorrows drownedFor a lover under ground?LucindaWhat a picture have I seen!What can all these visions mean!Wintry groves and vacant halls,Coffins hid by sable palls,Monuments and funerals!Forms terrific to the sight,Ghastly phantoms clad in white;Streams that ever seemed to freeze,Shaded o'er by willow trees,130Ever drooping – hardly green —What a vision have I seen!One I saw of angel kind,From the dregs of life refined;On her visage such a smile,131And she talk'd in such a style!All was heaven upon her brow; —Yes, I think I see her now!All in beams of light arrayed;And these cheering words she said:Fair Lucinda, come to me;What has grief to do with thee?O forsake your wretched shore,Crimsoned with its children's gore!132Could you but a moment strayIn the meadows where I play,You would die to come away.Come away, and speed your wing —133Here we love, and here we sing!ThyrsisYou will not yet forget your glooms,The heavy heart, the downcast eye,The cheek that scarce a smile assumes,The never-ending sigh!134LucindaHad you the secret cause to grieve —That in this breast doth lie,Instead of wishing to relieveYou would be just as I.ThyrsisWhat secret cause have you to grieve? —A lover gone astray? —135If one was able to deceive,Perhaps another may.LucindaMy lover has not me deceived,An act he would disdain;Oh! he is gone – and I am grieved —He'll never come again!He'll never come again!ThyrsisThe turtle on yon' withered boughWho lately moaned her murdered mate,Has found another partner now, —Such changes all await.Again her drooping plume is dress'd,Again she wishes to be bless'd,And takes a husband to her nest.If nature has decreed it soWith some above, and all below,Let us, Lucinda, banish woe,136Nor be perplext with sorrow:If I should leave your arms this night,And die before the morning light,I would advise you – and you mightWed again to-morrow.LucindaThe turtle on yon' withered tree! —That turtle never felt like me!Her grief is but a moment's date,Another day, another mate:And true it is, the feathered raceHold many a partner no disgrace.How would the world my fault display,What would censorious Sally137 say?Would say, while grinning malice sneers, —138She made a conquest by her tears!ThyrsisMy Polly! – once the pride of all,That shepherd lads their charmers call,Too early parted with her bloom,And sleeps in yonder sylvan tomb:Her death has set me free —Fair as the day, and sweet as May,But what is that to me!Since all must bow to fate's arrest,139No love deceased shall rack my breast —Come, then, Lucinda, and be blest.LucindaMy Damon! Oh, can I forgetThe hour you left these moistened eyes,O'er northern lakes to wander farTo colder climes and dreary skies!There, vengeful, in their wastes of snowThe Britons guard the frozen shore,And Damon there is perished now,The swain that shall return no more!ThyrsisWeep, weep no more, my Jersey lass,140The pang is past that fixed his doom —They, too, shall to destruction pass,Perhaps – and hardly find a tomb.Refrain your tears – enough are shed —They, too, shall have their share of woe:Fled is their fame, their honours fled;And Washington shall lay them low.LucindaIf you had but yon' sergeant's size,His mien and looks, so debonaire,You might seem lovely in my eyes,Nor should you quite despair.141There's something in your looks, I find,Recalling Damon to my mind —He is dead, and I must be resigned!His lively step, his sun-burnt face,His nervous arm in you I trace —Indeed, – I think you no disgrace.142ThyrsisOn this dismal, cloudy day,143In these fighting times, I say,Will you Yea, or will you Nay?LucindaOh! I will not tell you Nay,You have such a coaxing way!ThyrsisCall the music! – half is doneThat my heart could count upon —From the grave I seize a prize!Here she is, and where he lies,She or I but little care!O, what animals we are!For you! – I would forego all ease,144And traverse sands or travel seas.Of all they sent us from above,Nothing, nothing is like love!Happiest passion of the mind,Sent from heaven to bless mankind,Though at variance with your charms,Fate's eternal mandate stands;Hymen, come! – unite our hands,And give Lucinda to my arms!

MAC SWIGGEN145

A Satire

Written 1775Long have I sat on this disast'rous shore,And, sighing, sought to gain a passage o'erTo Europe's towns, where, as our travellers say,Poets may flourish, or, perhaps they may;But such abuse has from your coarse pen fellI think I may defer my voyage as well;Why should I far in search of honour roam,And dunces leave to triumph here at home?Great Jove in wrath a spark of genius gave.And bade me drink the mad Pierian wave,Hence came these rhimes, with truth ascrib'd to me,That swell thy little soul to jealousy:146If thus, tormented at these flighty lays,You strive to blast what ne'er was meant for praise,How will you bear the more exalted rhime,By labour polish'd, and matur'd by time?Devoted madman! what inspir'd thy rage,Who bade thy foolish muse with me engage?Against a wind-mill would'st thou try thy might,Against a giant147 would a pigmy fight?What could thy slanderous pen with malice armTo injure him, who never did thee harm?148Have I from thee been urgent to attainThe mean ideas of thy barren brain?Have I been seen in borrowed clothes to shine,And, when detected, swear by Jove they're mine?O miscreant, hostile to thine own repose,From thy own envy thy destruction flows!Bless'd be our western world – its scenes conspireTo raise a poet's fancy and his fire,Lo, blue-topt mountains to the skies ascend!Lo, shady forests to the breezes bend!See mighty streams meandering to the main!See lambs and lambkins sport on every plain!The spotted herds in flowery meadows see!But what, ungenerous wretch, are these to thee? —You find no charms in all that nature yields,Then leave to me the grottoes and the fields:I interfere not with your vast design —Pursue your studies, and I'll follow mine,Pursue, well pleas'd, your theologic schemes,Attend professors, and correct your themes,Still some dull nonsense, low-bred wit invent,Or prove from scripture what it never meant,Or far through law, that land of scoundrels, stray,And truth disguise through all your mazy way;Wealth you may gain, your clients you may squeeze,And by long cheating, learn to live at ease;If but in Wood or Littleton well read,The devil shall help you to your daily bread.O waft me far, ye muses of the west —Give me your green bowers and soft seats of rest —Thrice happy in those dear retreats to findA safe retirement from all human kind.Though dire misfortunes every step attend,The muse, still social, still remains a friend —In solitude her converse gives delight,With gay poetic dreams she cheers the night,She aids me, shields me, bears me on her wings,In spite of growling whelps, to high, exalted things,Beyond the miscreants that my peace molest,Miscreants, with dullness and with rage opprest.Hail, great Mac Swiggen!149 foe to honest fame,150Patron of dunces, and thyself the same,You dream of conquest – tell me, how, or whence?Act like a man and combat me with sense —This evil have I known, and known but once,151Thus to be gall'd and slander'd by a dunce,Saw rage and weakness join their dastard planTo crush the shadow, not attack the man.What swarms of vermin from the sultry southLike frogs surround thy pestilential mouth —Clad in the garb of sacred sanctity,What madness prompts thee to invent a lie?Thou base defender of a wretched crew,Thy tongue let loose on those you never knew,The human spirit with the brutal join'd,The imps of Orcus in thy breast combin'd,The genius barren, and the wicked heart,Prepar'd to take each trifling scoundrel's part,The turn'd up nose, the monkey's foolish face,The scorn of reason, and your sire's disgrace —Assist me, gods, to drive this dog of rhimeBack to the torments of his native clime,Where dullness mingles with her native earth,152And rhimes, not worth the pang that gave them birth!Where did he learn to write or talk with men? —A senseless blockhead, with a scribbling pen —In vile acrostics thou may'st please the fair,153Not less than with thy looks and powder'd hair,But strive no more with rhime to daunt thy foes,Or, by the flame that in my bosom glows,The muse on thee shall her worst fury spend,And hemp, or water, thy vile being end.Aspers'd like me, who would not grieve and rage!Who would not burn, Mac Swiggen to engage?Him and his friends, a mean, designing race,I, singly I, must combat face to face —Alone I stand to meet the foul-mouth'd train,154Assisted by no poets of the plain,Whose timerous Muses cannot swell their themeBeyond a meadow or a purling stream. —Were not my breast impervious to despair,And did not Clio reign unrivall'd there,I must expire beneath the ungenerous host,And dullness triumph o'er a poet lost.Rage gives me wings, and fearless prompts me onTo conquer brutes the world should blush to own;No peace, no quarter to such imps I lend,Death and perdition on each line I send;Bring all the wittlings that your host supplies,A cloud of nonsense and a storm of lies —Your kitchen wit – Mac Swiggen's loud applause,That wretched rhymer with his lanthorn jaws —His deep-set eyes forever on the wink,His soul extracted from the public sink —All such as he, to my confusion call —And tho' ten myriads – I despise them all.Come on, Mac Swiggen, come – your muse is willing,Your prose is merry, but your verse is killing —Come on, attack me with that whining prose,Your beard is red, and swine-like is your nose,Like burning brush your bristly head of hair,The ugliest image of a Greenland bear —Come on – attack me with your choicest rhimes,Sound void of sense betrays the unmeaning chimes —Come, league your forces; all your wit combine,Your wit not equal to the bold design —The heaviest arms the Muse can give, I wield,To stretch Mac Swiggen floundering on the field,'Swiggen, who, aided by some spurious Muse,But bellows nonsense, and but writes abuse,'Swiggen, immortal and unfading grown,155But by no deeds or merits of his own. —So, when some hateful monster sees the day,In spirits we preserve it from decay,But for what end, it is not hard to guess —Not for its value, but its ugliness.Now, by the winds which shake thy rubric mop,(That nest of witches, or that barber's shop)Mac Swiggen, hear – Be wise in times to come,A dunce by nature, bid thy muse be dumb,Lest you, devoted to the infernal skies,Descend, like Lucifer, no more to rise. —Sick of all feuds, to Reason I appeal156From wars of paper, and from wars of steel,Let others here their hopes and wishes end,I to the sea with weary steps descend,Quit the mean conquest that such swine might yield,And leave Mac Swiggen to enjoy the field —In distant isles some happier scene I'll choose,And court in softer shades the unwilling Muse,Thrice happy there, through peaceful plains to rove,Or the cool verdure of the orange grove,Safe from the miscreants that my peace molest,Miscreants, with dullness and with rage opprest.