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

THE MONUMENT OF PHAON33

Written 1770

Phaon, the admirer of Sappho, both of the isle of Lesbos, privately forsook this first object of his affections, and set out to visit foreign countries. Sappho, after having long mourned his absence (which is the subject of one of Ovid's finest epistles), is here supposed to fall into the company of Ismenius a traveller, who informs her that he saw the tomb of a certain Phaon in Sicily, erected to his memory by a lady of the island, and gives her the inscriptions, hinting to her that, in all probability, it belonged to the same person she bemoans. She thereupon, in a fit of rage and despair, throws herself from the famous Leucadian rock, and perishes in the gulph below.

SapphoNo more I sing by yonder shaded stream,Where once intranc'd I fondly pass'd the day,Supremely blest, when Phaon was my theme,But wretched now, when Phaon is away!Of all the youths that grac'd our Lesbian isleHe, only he, my heart propitious found,So soft his language, and so sweet his smile,Heaven was my own when Phaon clasp'd me round!But soon, too soon, the faithless lover fledTo wander on some distant barbarous shore —Who knows if Phaon is alive or dead,Or wretched Sappho shall behold him more.IsmeniusAs late in fair Sicilia's groves I stray'd,Charm'd with the beauties of the vernal sceneI sate me down amid the yew tree's shade,Flowers blooming round, with herbage fresh and green.Not distant far a monument aroseAmong the trees and form'd of Parian stone,And, as if there some stranger did repose,It stood neglected, and it stood alone.Along its sides dependent ivy crept,The cypress bough, Plutonian green, was near,A sculptur'd Venus on the summit wept,A pensive Cupid dropt the parting tear.Strains deep engrav'd on every side I read,How Phaon died upon that foreign shore —Sappho, I think your Phaon must be dead,Then hear the strains that do his fate deplore:Thou swain that lov'st the morning air,To those embowering trees repair,Forsake thy sleep at early dawn.And of this landscape to grow fonder,Still, O still persist to wanderUp and down the flowery lawn;And as you there enraptur'd roveFrom hill to hill, from grove to grove,Pensive now and quite alone,Cast thine eye upon this stone,Read its melancholy moan;And if you can refuse a tearTo the youth that slumbers here,Whom the Lesbians held so dear,Nature calls thee not her own.Echo, hasten to my aid!Tell the woods and tell the waves,Tell the far off mountain caves(Wrapt in solitary shade);Tell them in high tragic numbers,That beneath this marble tomb,Shrouded in unceasing gloomPhaon, youthful Phaon, slumbers,By Sicilian swains deplor'd —That a narrow urn restrainsHim who charm'd our pleasing plains,Him, whom every nymph ador'd.Tell the woods and tell the waves,Tell the mossy mountain caves,Tell them, if none will hear beside,How our lovely Phaon died.In that season when the sunBids his glowing charioteerPhœbus, native of the sphere,High the burning zenith run;Then our much lamented swain,O'er the sunny, scorched plain,Hunting with a chosen train,Slew the monsters of the wasteFrom those gloomy caverns chac'dRound stupendous Etna plac'd. —Conquer'd by the solar beamAt last he came to yonder stream;Panting, thirsting there he layOn this fatal summer's day,While his locks of raven jettWere on his temples dripping wet;The gentle stream ran purling byO'er the pebbles, pleasantly,Tempting him to drink and die —He drank indeed – but never thoughtDeath was in the gelid draught! —Soon it chill'd his boiling veins,Soon this glory of the plainsLeft the nymphs and left the swains,And has fled with all his charmsWhere the Stygian monarch reigns,Where no sun the climate warms! —Dread Pluto then, as once before,Pass'd Avernus' waters o'er;Left the dark and dismal shore,And strait enamour'd, as he gloomy stood,Seiz'd Phaon by the waters of the wood.Now o'er the silent plainWe for our much lov'd Phaon call again,And Phaon! Phaon! ring the woods amain —From beneath this myrtle tree,Musidora, wretched maid,How shall Phaon answer thee,Deep in vaulted caverns laid! —Thrice the myrtle tree hath bloom'dSince our Phaon was entomb'd,I, who had his heart, below,I have rais'd this turret high,A monument of love and woeThat Phaon's name may never die. —With deepest grief, O muse divine,Around his tomb thy laurels twineAnd shed thy sorrow, for to morrowThou, perhaps, shalt cease to glow —My hopes are crost, my lover lost,And I must weeping o'er the mountains go!SapphoAh, faithless Phaon, thus from me to rove,And bless my rival in a foreign grove!Could Sicily more charming forests showThan those that in thy native Lesbos grow —Did fairer fruits adorn the bending treeThan those that Lesbos did present to thee!Or didst thou find through all the changing fairOne beauty that with Sappho could compare!So soft, so sweet, so charming and so kind,A face so fair, such beauties of the mind —Not Musidora can be rank'd with meWho sings so well thy funeral song for thee! —34I'll go! – and from the high Leucadian steepTake my last farewell in the lover's leap,I charge thee, Phaon, by this deed of woeTo meet me in the Elysian shades below,No rival beauty shall pretend a share,Sappho alone shall walk with Phaon there.She spoke, and downward from the mountain's heightPlung'd in the plashy wave to everlasting night.

THE POWER OF FANCY35

Written 1770Wakeful, vagrant, restless thing,Ever wandering on the wing,Who thy wondrous source can find,Fancy, regent of the mind;A spark from Jove's resplendent throne,But thy nature all unknown.This spark of bright, celestial flame,From Jove's seraphic altar came,And hence alone in man we trace,Resemblance to the immortal race.Ah! what is all this mighty whole,These suns and stars that round us roll!What are they all, where'er they shine,But Fancies of the Power Divine!What is this globe, these lands, and seas,And heat, and cold, and flowers, and trees,And life, and death, and beast, and man,And time – that with the sun began —But thoughts on reason's scale combin'd,Ideas of the Almighty mind!On the surface of the brainNight after night she walks unseen,Noble fabrics doth she raiseIn the woods or on the seas,On some high, steep, pointed rock,Where the billows loudly knockAnd the dreary tempests sweepClouds along the uncivil deep.Lo! she walks upon the moon,Listens to the chimy tuneOf the bright, harmonious spheres,And the song of angels hears;Sees this earth a distant star,[A]Pendant, floating in the air;Leads me to some lonely dome,Where Religion loves to come,Where the bride of Jesus dwells,And the deep ton'd organ swellsIn notes with lofty anthems join'd,Notes that half distract the mind.Now like lightning she descendsTo the prison of the fiends,Hears the rattling of their chains,Feels their never ceasing pains —But, O never may she tellHalf the frightfulness of hell.Now she views Arcadian rocks,Where the shepherds guard their flocks,And, while yet her wings she spreads,Sees chrystal streams and coral beds,Wanders to some desert deep,Or some dark, enchanted steep,By the full moonlight doth shewForests of a dusky blue,Where, upon some mossy bed,Innocence reclines her head.Swift, she stretches o'er the seasTo the far off Hebrides,Canvas on the lofty mastCould not travel half so fast —Swifter than the eagle's flightOr instantaneous rays of light!Lo! contemplative she standsOn Norwegia's rocky lands —Fickle Goddess, set me downWhere the rugged winters frownUpon Orca's howling steep,Nodding o'er the northern deep,Where the winds tumultuous roar,Vext that Ossian sings no more.Fancy, to that land repair,Sweetest Ossian slumbers there;Waft me far to southern islesWhere the soften'd winter smiles,To Bermuda's orange shades,Or Demarara's lovely glades;Bear me o'er the sounding cape,Painting death in every shape,Where daring Anson spread the sailShatter'd by the stormy gale —Lo! she leads me wide and far,Sense can never follow her —Shape thy course o'er land and sea,Help me to keep pace with thee,Lead me to yon' chalky cliff,Over rock and over reef,Into Britain's fertile land,Stretching far her proud command.Look back and view, thro' many a year,Cæsar, Julius Cæsar, there.Now to Tempe's verdant wood,Over the mid-ocean floodLo! the islands of the sea —Sappho, Lesbos mourns for thee:Greece, arouse thy humbled head,Where are all thy mighty dead,Who states to endless ruin hurl'dAnd carried vengeance through the world? —Troy, thy vanish'd pomp resume,Or, weeping at thy Hector's tomb,Yet those faded scenes renew,Whose memory is to Homer due.Fancy, lead me wandering stillUp to Ida's cloud-topt hill;Not a laurel there doth growBut in vision thou shalt show, —Every sprig on Virgil's tombShall in livelier colours bloom,And every triumph Rome has seenFlourish on the years between.Now she bears me far awayIn the east to meet the day,Leads me over Ganges' streams,Mother of the morning beams —O'er the ocean hath she ran,Places me on Tinian;Farther, farther in the east,Till it almost meets the west,Let us wandering both be lostOn Taitis sea-beat coast,Bear me from that distant strand,Over ocean, over land,To California's golden shore —Fancy, stop, and rove no more.Now, tho' late, returning home,Lead me to Belinda's tomb;Let me glide as well as youThrough the shroud and coffin too,And behold, a moment, there,All that once was good and fair —Who doth here so soundly sleep?Shall we break this prison deep? —Thunders cannot wake the maid,Lightnings cannot pierce the shade,And tho' wintry tempests roar,Tempests shall disturb no more.Yet must those eyes in darkness stay,That once were rivals to the day? —Like heaven's bright lamp beneath the mainThey are but set to rise again.Fancy, thou the muses' pride,In thy painted realms resideEndless images of things,Fluttering each on golden wings,Ideal objects, such a store,The universe could hold no more:Fancy, to thy power I oweHalf my happiness below;By thee Elysian groves were made,Thine were the notes that Orpheus play'd;By thee was Pluto charm'd so wellWhile rapture seiz'd the sons of hell —Come, O come – perceiv'd by none,You and I will walk alone.

[A] Milton's Paradise Lost, B. II, V. 1052. —Freneau's note.

THE PRAYER OF ORPHEUS

Sad monarch of the world below,Stern guardian of this drowsy shade,Through these unlovely realms I goTo seek a captive thou hast made.O'er Stygian waters have I pass'd,Contemning Jove's severe decree,And reached thy sable court at lastTo find my lost Eurydicè.Of all the nymphs so deckt and drestLike Venus of the starry train,She was the loveliest and the best,The pride and glory of the plain.O free from thy despotic swayThis nymph of heaven-descended charms,Too soon she came this dusky way —Restore thy captive to my arms!As by a stream's fair verdant sideIn myrtle shades she roved along,A serpent stung my blooming bride,This brightest of the female throng —The venom hastening thro' her veinsForbade the freezing blood to flow.And thus she left the Thracian plainsFor these dejected groves below.Even thou may'st pity my sad pain,Since Love, as ancient stories say,Forced thee to leave thy native reign,And in Sicilian meadows stray:Bright Proserpine thy bosom fired,For her you sought unwelcome light,Madness and love in you conspiredTo seize her to the shades of night.But if, averse to my request,The banished nymph, for whom I mourn,Must in Plutonian chambers rest,And never to my arms return —Take Orpheus too – his warm desireCan ne'er be quench'd by your decree:In life or death he must admire,He must adore Eurydicè!

THE DESERTED FARM-HOUSE36

This antique dome the insatiate tooth of timeNow level with the dust has almost laid; —Yet ere 'tis gone, I seize my humble themeFrom these low ruins, that his years have made.Behold the unsocial hearth! – where once the firesBlazed high, and soothed the storm-stay'd traveller's woes;See! the weak roof, that abler props requires,Admits the winds, and swift descending snows.Here, to forget the labours of the day,No more the swains at evening hours repair,But wandering flocks assume the well known wayTo shun the rigours of the midnight air.In yonder chamber, half to ruin gone,Once stood the ancient housewife's curtained bed —Timely the prudent matron has withdrawn,And each domestic comfort with her fled.The trees, the flowers that her own hands had reared,The plants, the vines, that were so verdant seen, —The trees, the flowers, the vines have disappear'd,And every plant has vanish'd from the green.So sits in tears on wide Campania's plainRome, once the mistress of a world enslaved;That triumph'd o'er the land, subdued the main,And Time himself, in her wild transports, braved.So sits in tears on Palestina's shoreThe Hebrew town, of splendour once divine —Her kings, her lords, her triumphs are no more;Slain are her priests, and ruin'd every shrine.Once, in the bounds of this deserted room,Perhaps some swain nocturnal courtship made,Perhaps some Sherlock mused amidst the gloom;Since Love and Death forever seek the shade.Perhaps some miser, doom'd to discontent,Here counted o'er the heaps acquired with pain;He to the dust – his gold, on traffick sent,Shall ne'er disgrace these mouldering walls again.Nor shall the glow-worm fopling, sunshine bred,Seek, at the evening hour this wonted dome —Time has reduced the fabrick to a shed,Scarce fit to be the wandering beggar's home.And none but I its dismal case lament —None, none but I o'er its cold relics mourn,Sent by the muse – (the time perhaps misspent) —To write dull stanzas on this dome forlorn.

THE CITIZEN'S RESOLVE37

"Far be the dull and heavy day"And toil, and restless care, from me —"Sorrow attends on loads of gold,"And kings are wretched, I am told."Soon from the noisy town removed"To such wild scenes as Plato38 lov'd,"Where, placed the leafless oaks between,"Less haughty grows the wintergreen,"There, Night, will I (lock'd in thy arms,"Sweet goddess of the sable charms)"Enjoy the dear, delightful dreams"That fancy prompts by shallow39 streams,"Where wood nymphs walk their evening round,"And fairies haunt the moonlight ground."Beneath some mountain's towering height"In cottage low I hail the night,"Where jovial swains with heart sincere"Welcome the new returning year; —"Each tells a tale or chaunts a song"Of her, for whom he sigh'd so long,"Of Cynthia40 fair, or Delia coy,"Neglecting still her love-sick boy —"While, near, the hoary headed sage"Recalls the feats of youth's gay age,"All that in past time e'er was seen,"And many a frolic on the green,"How champion he with champions met,"And fiercely they did combat it —"Or how, full oft, with horn and hound"They chaced the deer the forest round —"The panting deer as swiftly flies,"Yet by the well-aimed musquet dies!"Thus pass the evening hours away,"Unnoticed dies the parting day;"Unmeasured flows that happy juice,"Which mild October did produce,"No surly sage, too frugal found,"No niggard housewife deals it round:"And deep they quaff the inspiring bowl"That kindles gladness in the soul. —41"But now the moon, exalted high,"Adds lustre to the earth and sky,"And in the mighty ocean's glass"Admires the beauties of her face —"About her orb you may behold"The circling stars that freeze with cold —"But they in brighter seasons please,"Winter can find no charms in these,"While less ambitious, we admire,"And more esteem domestic fire."O could I there a mansion find"Suited exactly to my mind"Near that industrious, heavenly train"Of rustics honest, neat, and plain;"The days, the weeks, the years to pass"With some good-natured, longing lass,"With her the cooling spring to sip,"And seize, at will, her damask lip;"The groves, the springs, the shades divine,"And all Arcadia should be mine!"Steep me, steep me, some poppies deep"In beechen bowl, to bring on sleep;"Love hath my soul in fetters bound,"Through the dull night no sleep I found; —"O gentle sleep! bestow thy dreams"Of fields, and woods, and murmuring streams,"Dark, tufted groves, and grottoes rare,"And Flora, charming Flora, there."Dull Commerce, hence, with all thy train"Of debts, and dues, and loss, and gain;"To hills, and groves, and purling streams,"To nights of ease, and heaven-born dreams,"While wiser Damon hastes away,"Should I in this dull city stay,"Condemn'd to death by slow decays"And care that clouds my brightest days?"No – by Silenus' self I swear,"In rustic shades I'll kill that care."So spoke Lysander, and in hasteHis clerks discharg'd, his goods re-cased,And to the western forests flewWith fifty airy schemes in view;His ships were set to public sale —But what did all this change avail? —In three short months, sick of the heavenly train,In three short months – he moved to town again.

THE DYING ELM42

Sweet, lovely Elm, who here dost growCompanion of unsocial care,Lo! thy dejected branches dieAmidst this torrid air —Smit by the sun or blasting moon,Like fainting flowers, their verdure gone.Thy withering leaves, that drooping hang,Presage thine end approaching nigh;And lo! thy amber tears distill,Attended with that parting sigh —O charming tree! no more decline,But be thy shades and love-sick whispers mine.Forbear to die – this weeping eyeShall shed her little drops on you,Shall o'er thy sad disaster grieve,And wash thy wounds with pearly dew,Shall pity you, and pity me,And heal the languor of my tree!Short is thy life, if thou so soon must fade,Like angry Jonah's gourd at Nineveh,That, in a night, its bloomy branches spread,And perish'd with the day. —Come, then, revive, sweet lovely Elm, lest I,Thro' vehemence of heat, like Jonah, wish to die.

COLUMBUS TO FERDINAND43

Columbus was a considerable number of years engaged in soliciting the Court of Spain to fit him out, in order to discover a new continent, which he imagined existed somewhere in the western parts of the ocean. During his negotiations, he is here supposed to address king Ferdinand in the following Stanzas.

Illustrious monarch of Iberia's soil,Too long I wait permission to depart;Sick of delays, I beg thy list'ning ear —Shine forth the patron and the prince of art.While yet Columbus breathes the vital air,Grant his request to pass the western main:Reserve this glory for thy native soil,And what must please thee more – for thy own reign.Of this huge globe, how small a part we know —Does heaven their worlds to western suns deny? —How disproportion'd to the mighty deepThe lands that yet in human prospect lie!Does Cynthia, when to western skies arriv'd,Spend her sweet beam upon the barren main,And ne'er illume with midnight splendor, she,The natives dancing on the lightsome green? —Should the vast circuit of the world containSuch wastes of ocean, and such scanty land? —'Tis reason's voice that bids me think not so,I think more nobly of the Almighty hand.Does yon' fair lamp trace half the circle roundTo light the waves and monsters of the seas? —No – be there must beyond the billowy wasteIslands, and men, and animals, and trees.An unremitting flame my breast inspiresTo seek new lands amidst the barren waves,Where falling low, the source of day descends,And the blue sea his evening visage laves.Hear, in his tragic lay, Cordova's sage:[A]"The time shall come, when numerous years are past,"The ocean shall dissolve the bands of things,"And an extended region rise at last;

[A] Seneca the poet, native of Cordova in Spain. —Freneau's note (1786). Venient annis secula seris, quibus oceanus vincula rerum laxet, et ingens pateat tellus, Typhisque novos detegat orbes; nec sit terris Ultima Thule.– Seneca, Med., Act. III, V. 375. (Ibid. Ed. 1795 et seq.)

"And Typhis shall disclose the mighty land"Far, far away, where none have rov'd before;"Nor shall the world's remotest region be "Gibraltar's rock, or Thule's [B] savage shore."44

[B] Supposed by many to be the Orkney or Shetland Isles. —Freneau's note.

Fir'd at the theme, I languish to depart,Supply the barque, and bid Columbus sail,He fears no storms upon the untravell'd deep;Reason shall steer, and skill disarm the gale.Nor does he dread to lose the intended course,Though far from land the reeling galley stray,And skies above, and gulphy seas belowBe the sole objects seen for many a day.Think not that Nature has unveil'd in vainThe mystic magnet to the mortal eye:So late have we the guiding needle plann'dOnly to sail beneath our native sky?Ere this was found, the ruling power of allFound for our use an ocean in the land,Its breadth so small we could not wander long,Nor long be absent from the neighbouring strand.Short was the course, and guided by the stars,But stars no more shall point our daring way;The Bear shall sink, and every guard be drown'd,And great Arcturus scarce escape the sea,When southward we shall steer – O grant my wish.Supply the barque, and bid Columbus sail,He dreads no tempests on the untravell'd deep,Reason shall steer, and shall disarm the gale.

THE RISING GLORY OF AMERICA45

Being part of a Dialogue pronounced on a public occasion

Argument

The subject proposed. – The discovery of America by Columbus. – A philosophical enquiry into the origin of the savages of America. – The first planters from Europe. – Causes of their migration to America. – The difficulties they encountered from the jealousy of the natives. – Agriculture descanted on. – Commerce and navigation. – Science. – Future prospects of British usurpation, tyranny, and devastation on this side the Atlantic. – The more comfortable one of Independence, Liberty and Peace. – Conclusion.

AcastoNow shall the adventurous muse attempt a themeMore new, more noble and more flush of fameThan all that went before —Now through the veil of ancient days renewThe period famed when first Columbus touched5These shores so long unknown – through various toils,Famine, and death, the hero forced his way,Through oceans pregnant with perpetual storms,And climates hostile to adventurous man.But why, to prompt your tears, should we resume,10The tale of Cortez, furious chief, ordainedWith Indian blood to dye the sands, and choak,Famed Mexico, thy streams with dead? or whyOnce more revive the tale so oft rehearsedOf Atabilipa, by thirst of gold,15(Too conquering motive in the human breast,)Deprived of life, which not Peru's rich oreNor Mexico's vast mines could then redeem?Better these northern realms demand our song,Designed by nature for the rural reign,20For agriculture's toil. – No blood we shedFor metals buried in a rocky waste. —Cursed be that ore, which brutal makes our raceAnd prompts mankind to shed their kindred blood.EugenioBut whence arose25That vagrant race who love the shady vale,And choose the forest for their dark abode? —For long has this perplext the sages' skillTo investigate. – Tradition lends no aidTo unveil this secret to the human eye,30When first these various nations, north and south,Possest these shores, or from what countries came;Whether they sprang from some primæval headIn their own lands, like Adam in the east, —Yet this the sacred oracles deny,35And reason, too, reclaims against the thought:For when the general deluge drowned the worldWhere could their tribes have found security,Where find their fate, but in the ghastly deep? —Unless, as others dream, some chosen few40High on the Andes 'scaped the general death,High on the Andes, wrapt in endless snow,Where winter in his wildest fury reigns,And subtile æther scarce our life maintains.But here philosophers oppose the scheme:45This earth, say they, nor hills nor mountains knewEre yet the universal flood prevailed;But when the mighty waters rose aloft,Roused by the winds, they shook their solid base,And, in convulsions, tore the deluged world,50'Till by the winds assuaged, again they fell,And all their ragged bed exposed to view.Perhaps far wandering toward the northern poleThe streights of Zembla, and the frozen zone,And where the eastern Greenland almost joins55America's north point, the hardy tribesOf banished Jews, Siberians, Tartars wildCame over icy mountains, or on floats,First reached these coasts, hid from the world beside. —And yet another argument more strange,60Reserved for men of deeper thought, and late,Presents itself to view: – In Peleg's days,(So says the Hebrew seer's unerring pen)This mighty mass of earth, this solid globe,Was cleft in twain, – "divided" east and west,65While then perhaps the deep Atlantic roll'd, —Through the vast chasm, and laved the solid world;And traces indisputable remainOf this primæval land now sunk and lost. —The islands rising in our eastern main70Are but small fragments of this continent,Whose two extremities were NewfoundlandAnd St. Helena. – One far in the north,Where shivering seamen view with strange surprizeThe guiding pole-star glittering o'er their heads;75The other near the southern tropic rearsIts head above the waves – Bermuda's isles,Cape Verd, Canary, Britain, and the Azores,With fam'd Hibernia, are but broken partsOf some prodigious waste, which once sustain'd80Nations and tribes, of vanished memory,Forests and towns, and beasts of every class,Where navies now explore their briny way.LeanderYour sophistry, Eugenio, makes me smile;The roving mind of man delights to dwell85On hidden things, merely because they're hid:He thinks his knowledge far beyond all limit,And boldly fathoms Nature's darkest haunts; —But for uncertainties, your broken isles,Your northern Tartars, and your wandering Jews,90(The flimsy cobwebs of a sophist's brain)Hear what the voice of history proclaims: —The Carthagenians, ere the Roman yokeBroke their proud spirits, and enslaved them too,For navigation were renowned as much95As haughty Tyre with all her hundred fleets.Full many a league their venturous seamen sailedThrough streight Gibraltar, down the western shoreOf Africa, to the Canary isles:By them called Fortunate; so Flaccus sings.100Because eternal spring there clothes the fieldsAnd fruits delicious bloom throughout the year. —From voyaging here, this inference I draw,Perhaps some barque with all her numerous crewFalling to leeward of her destined port,105Caught by the eastern Trade, was hurried onBefore the unceasing blast to Indian isles,Brazil, La Plata, or the coasts more south —There stranded, and unable to return,Forever from their native skies estranged.110Doubtless they made these virgin climes their own,And in the course of long revolving yearsA numerous progeny from these arose,And spread throughout the coasts – those whom we callBrazilians, Mexicans, Peruvians rich,115The tribes of Chili, Patagon, and thoseWho till the shores of Amazon's long stream. —When first the power of Europe here attained,Vast empires, kingdoms, cities, palacesAnd polished nations stock'd the fertile land.120Who has not heard of Cusco, Lima, andThe town of Mexico – huge cities form'dFrom Indian architecture; ere the armsOf haughty Spain disturb'd the peaceful soil? —But here, amid this northern dark domain,125No towns were seen to rise. – No arts were here;The tribes unskill'd to raise the lofty mast,Or force the daring prow thro' adverse waves,Gazed on the pregnant soil, and craved aloneLife from the unaided genius of the ground, – 130This indicates they were a different race;From whom descended, 'tis not ours to say —That power, no doubt, who furnish'd trees, and plants,And animals to this vast continent,Spoke into being man among the rest, – 135But what a change is here! – what arts arise!What towns and capitals! how commerce wavesHer gaudy flags, where silence reign'd before!AcastoSpeak, learned Eugenio, for I've heard you tellThe dismal story, and the cause that brought140The first adventurers to these western shores!The glorious cause that urged our fathers firstTo visit climes unknown, and wilder woodsThan e'er Tartarian or Norwegian saw,And with fair culture to adorn a soil145That never felt the industrious swain before.EugenioAll this long story to rehearse, would tire;Besides, the sun towards the west retreats,Nor can the noblest theme retard his speed,Nor loftiest verse – not that which sang the fall150Of Troy divine, and fierce Achilles' ire. —Yet hear a part: – By persecution wrongedAnd sacerdotal rage, our fathers cameFrom Europe's hostile shores to these abodes,Here to enjoy a liberty in faith,155Secure from tyranny and base controul.For this they left their country and their friends,And plough'd the Atlantic wave in quest of peace;And found new shores, and sylvan settlements,And men, alike unknowing and unknown.160Hence, by the care of each adventurous chiefNew governments (their wealth unenvied yet)Were form'd on liberty and virtue's plan.These searching out uncultivated tractsConceived new plans of towns, and capitals,165And spacious provinces. – Why should I nameThee, Penn, the Solon of our western lands;Sagacious legislator, whom the worldAdmires, long dead: an infant colony,Nursed by thy care, now rises o'er the rest170Like that tall pyramid in Egypt's wasteO'er all the neighbouring piles, they also great.Why should I name those heroes so well known,Who peopled all the rest from CanadaTo Georgia's farthest coasts, West Florida,175Or Apalachian mountains? – Yet what streamsOf blood were shed! what Indian hosts were slain,Before the days of peace were quite restored!LeanderYes, while they overturn'd the rugged soilAnd swept the forests from the shaded plain180'Midst dangers, foes, and death, fierce Indian tribesWith vengeful malice arm'd, and black design,Oft murdered, or dispersed, these colonies —Encouraged, too, by Gallia's hostile sons,A warlike race, who late their arms display'd,185At Quebec, Montreal, and farthest coastsOf Labrador, or Cape Breton, where nowThe British standard awes the subject host.Here, those brave chiefs, who, lavish of their blood,Fought in Britannia's cause, in battle fell! – 190What heart but mourns the untimely fate of Wolfe,Who, dying, conquered! – or what breast but beatsTo share a fate like his, and die like him!AcastoBut why alone commemorate the dead,And pass those glorious heroes by, who yet195Breathe the same air, and see the light with us? —The dead, Leander, are but empty names,And they who fall to-day the same to usAs they who fell ten centuries ago! —Lost are they all that shined on earth before;200Rome's boldest champions in the dust are laid,Ajax and great Achilles are no more,And Philip's warlike son, an empty shade! —A Washington among our sons of fameWill rise conspicuous as the morning star205Among the inferior lights: —To distant wilds Virginia sent him forth —With her brave sons he gallantly opposedThe bold invaders of his country's rights,Where wild Ohio pours the mazy flood,210And mighty meadows skirt his subject streams. —But now delighting in his elm tree's shade,Where deep Potowmac laves the enchanting shore,He prunes the tender vine, or bids the soilLuxuriant harvests to the sun display. – 215Behold a different scene – not thus employedWere Cortez, and Pizarro, pride of Spain,Whom blood and murder only satisfied,And all to glut their avarice and ambition! —EugenioSuch is the curse, Acasto, where the soul220Humane is wanting – but we boast no featsOf cruelty like Europe's murdering breed: —Our milder epithet is merciful,And each American, true hearted, learnsTo conquer, and to spare; for coward souls225Alone seek vengeance on a vanquished foe.Gold, fatal gold, was the alluring baitTo Spain's rapacious tribes – hence rose the warsFrom Chili to the Caribbean sea,And Montezuma's Mexican domains:230More blest are we, with whose unenvied soilNature decreed no mingling gold to shine,No flaming diamond, precious emerald,No blushing sapphire, ruby, chrysolite,Or jasper red – more noble riches flow235From agriculture, and the industrious swain,Who tills the fertile vale, or mountain's brow.Content to lead a safe, a humble life,Among his native hills, romantic shadesSuch as the muse of Greece of old did feign,240Allured the Olympian gods from chrystal skies,Envying such lovely scenes to mortal man.LeanderLong has the rural life been justly fam'd,And bards of old their pleasing pictures drewOf flowery meads, and groves, and gliding streams:245Hence, old Arcadia – wood-nymphs, satyrs, fauns;And hence Elysium, fancied heaven below! —Fair agriculture, not unworthy kings,Once exercised the royal hand, or thoseWhose virtues raised them to the rank of gods.250See old Laertes in his shepherd weedsFar from his pompous throne and court august,Digging the grateful soil, where round him rise,Sons of the earth, the tall aspiring oaks,Or orchards, boasting of more fertile boughs,255Laden with apples red, sweet scented peach,Pear, cherry, apricot, or spungy plumb;While through the glebe the industrious oxen drawThe earth-inverting plough. – Those Romans too,Fabricius and Camillus, loved a life260Of neat simplicity and rustic bliss,And from the noisy Forum hastening far,From busy camps, and sycophants, and crowns,'Midst woods and fields spent the remains of life,Where full enjoyment still awaits the wise.265How grateful, to behold the harvests rise,And mighty crops adorn the extended plains! —Fair plenty smiles throughout, while lowing herdsStalk o'er the shrubby hill or grassy mead,Or at some shallow river slake their thirst. – 270The inclosure, now, succeeds the shepherd's care,Yet milk-white flocks adorn the well stock'd farm,And court the attention of the industrious swain. —Their fleece rewards him well, and when the windsBlow with a keener blast, and from the north275Pour mingled tempests through a sunless sky(Ice, sleet, and rattling hail) secure he sitsWarm in his cottage, fearless of the storm,Enjoying now the toils of milder moons,Yet hoping for the spring. – Such are the joys,280And such the toils of those whom heaven hath bless'dWith souls enamoured of a country life.AcastoSuch are the visions of the rustic reign —But this alone, the fountain of support,Would scarce employ the varying mind of man;285Each seeks employ, and each a different way:Strip Commerce of her sail, and men once moreWould be converted into savages; —No nation e'er grew social and refined'Till Commerce first had wing'd the adventurous prow,290Or sent the slow-paced caravan, afar,To waft their produce to some other clime,And bring the wished exchange – thus came, of old,Golconda's golden ore, and thus the wealthOf Ophir, to the wisest of mankind.295EugenioGreat is the praise of Commerce, and the menDeserve our praise, who spread the undaunted sail,And traverse every sea – their dangers great,Death still to combat in the unfeeling gale,And every billow but a gaping grave: – 300There, skies and waters, wearying on the eye,For weeks and months no other prospect yieldBut barren wastes, unfathomed depths, where notThe blissful haunt of human form is seenTo cheer the unsocial horrors of the way. – 305Yet all these bold designs to Science oweTheir rise and glory. – Hail, fair Science! thou,Transplanted from the eastern skies, dost bloomIn these blest regions. – Greece and Rome no moreDetain the Muses on Citheron's brow,310Or old Olympus, crowned with waving woods,Or Hæmus' top, where once was heard the harp,Sweet Orpheus' harp, that gained his cause below,And pierced the souls of Orcus and his bride;That hush'd to silence by its voice divine315Thy melancholy waters, and the galesO Hebrus! that o'er thy sad surface blow. —No more the maids round Alpheus' waters stray,Where he with Arethusa's stream doth mix,Or where swift Tiber disembogues his waves320Into the Italian sea, so long unsung;Hither they wing their way, the last, the bestOf countries, where the arts shall rise and grow,And arms shall have their day; – even now we boastA Franklin, prince of all philosophy,325A genius piercing as the electric fire,Bright as the lightning's flash, explained so well,By him, the rival of Britannia's sage. —This is the land of every joyous sound,Of liberty and life, sweet liberty!330Without whose aid the noblest genius fails,And Science irretrievably must die.LeanderBut come, Eugenio, since we know the past —What hinders to pervade with searching eyeThe mystic scenes of dark futurity?335Say, shall we ask what empires yet must rise,What kingdoms, powers and states, where now are seenMere dreary wastes and awful solitude,Where Melancholy sits, with eye forlorn,And time anticipates, when we shall spread340Dominion from the north, and south, and west,Far from the Atlantic to Pacific shores,And people half the convex of the main! —A glorious theme! – but how shall mortals dareTo pierce the dark events of future years345And scenes unravel, only known to fate?AcastoThis might we do, if warmed by that bright coalSnatch'd from the altar of cherubic fireWhich touched Isaiah's lips – or if the spiritOf Jeremy and Amos, prophets old,350Might swell the heaving breast – I see, I seeFreedom's established reign; cities, and men,Numerous as sands upon the ocean shore,And empires rising where the sun descends! —The Ohio soon shall glide by many a town355Of note; and where the Mississippi stream,By forests shaded, now runs weeping on,Nations shall grow, and states not less in fameThan Greece and Rome of old! – we too shall boastOur Scipios, Solons, Catos, sages, chiefs360That in the lap of time yet dormant lie,Waiting the joyous hour of life and light. —O snatch me hence, ye muses, to those daysWhen, through the veil of dark antiquity,A race shall hear of us as things remote,365That blossomed in the morn of days. – Indeed,How could I weep that we exist so soon,Just in the dawning of these mighty times,Whose scenes are painting for eternity!Dissentions that shall swell the trump of fame,370And ruin hovering o'er all monarchy!EugenioNor shall these angry tumults here subsideNor murder cease, through all these provinces,Till foreign crowns have vanished from our viewAnd dazzle here no more – no more presume375To awe the spirit of fair Liberty; —Vengeance must cut the thread, – and Britain, sureWill curse her fatal obstinacy for it!Bent on the ruin of this injured country,She will not listen to our humble prayers.380Though offered with submission:Like vagabonds and objects of destruction,Like those whom all mankind are sworn to hate,She casts us off from her protection,And will invite the nations round about,385Russians and Germans, slaves and savages,To come and have a share in our perdition. —O cruel race, O unrelenting Britain,Who bloody beasts will hire to cut our throats,Who war will wage with prattling innocence,390And basely murder unoffending women! —Will stab their prisoners when they cry for quarter,Will burn our towns, and from his lodging turnThe poor inhabitant to sleep in tempests! —These will be wrongs, indeed, and all sufficient395To kindle up our souls to deeds of horror,And give to every arm the nerves of Samson —These are the men that fill the world with ruin,And every region mourns their greedy sway, —Not only for ambition – 400But what are this world's goods, that they for themShould exercise perpetual butchery?What are these mighty riches we possess,That they should send so far to plunder them? —Already have we felt their potent arm – 405And ever since that inauspicious day,When first Sir Francis BernardHis ruffians planted at the council door,And made the assembly room a home for vagrants,And soldiers, rank and file – e'er since that day410This wretched land, that drinks its children's gore,Has been a scene of tumult and confusion! —Are there not evils in the world enough?Are we so happy that they envy us?Have we not toiled to satisfy their harpies,415Kings' deputies, that are insatiable;Whose practice is to incense the royal mindAnd make us despicable in his view? —Have we not all the evils to contend withThat, in this life, mankind are subject to,420Pain, sickness, poverty, and natural death —But into every wound that nature gaveThey will a dagger plunge, and make them mortal!LeanderEnough, enough! – such dismal scenes you paint,I almost shudder at the recollection. – 425What! are they dogs that they would mangle us? —Are these the men that come with base designTo rob the hive, and kill the industrious bee! —To brighter skies I turn my ravished view,And fairer prospects from the future draw: – 430Here independent power shall hold her sway,And public virtue warm the patriot breast:No traces shall remain of tyranny,And laws, a pattern to the world beside,Be here enacted first. – 435AcastoAnd when a train of rolling years are past,(So sung the exiled seer in Patmos isle)A new Jerusalem, sent down from heaven.Shall grace our happy earth, – perhaps this land,Whose ample bosom shall receive, though late,440Myriads of saints, with their immortal king,To live and reign on earth a thousand years,Thence called Millennium. Paradise anewShall flourish, by no second Adam lost,No dangerous tree with deadly fruit shall grow,445No tempting serpent to allure the soulFrom native innocence. – A Canaan here,Another Canaan shall excel the old,And from a fairer Pisgah's top be seen.No thistle here, nor thorn, nor briar shall spring,450Earth's curse before: the lion and the lambIn mutual friendship linked, shall browse the shrub.And timorous deer with softened tygers strayO'er mead, or lofty hill, or grassy plain;Another Jordan's stream shall glide along,455And Siloah's brook in circling eddies flow:Groves shall adorn their verdant banks, on whichThe happy people, free from toils and death.Shall find secure repose. No fierce disease,No fevers, slow consumption, ghastly plague,460(Fate's ancient ministers) again proclaimPerpetual war with man: fair fruits shall bloom,Fair to the eye, and sweeter to the taste;Nature's loud storms be hushed, and seas no moreRage hostile to mankind – and, worse than all,465The fiercer passions of the human breastShall kindle up to deeds of death no more,But all subside in universal peace. —Such days the world,And such America at last shall have470When ages, yet to come, have run their round,And future years of bliss alone remain.