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

Canto II

When from the prow's intimidating heightThey plung'd the prophet to the realms of night,Not long he languished in the briny deep,In death's cold arms not yet decreed to sleep. —Jehovah saw him, from the abodes of bliss,Sunk to the bottom of the vast abyss,And bade a whale, the mightiest of the kind,His prophet in these dismal mansions find —The hostile form, approaching through the wave,Receiv'd him living to a living grave,Where three long days in dark distress he lay,And oft repenting, to his God did pray —The power benign, propitious to his prayer,Bade the huge fish to neighbouring shores repair —Instant the whale obey'd the high command,And cast him safe on Palestina's strand.The prophet then his past transgressions mourn'd,And grateful, thus to heaven his thanks return'd:"Afflicted from the depths of hell I pray'd,"The dark abyss of everlasting shade:"My God in mercy heard the earnest prayer,"And dying Jonah felt thy presence there."Because I dared thy mandate disobey,"Far didst thou plunge me from the face of day:"In the vast ocean, where no land is found,"The mighty waters closed thy prophet round:"On me the waves their utmost fury spent,"And all thy billows o'er my body went,"Yet then, surrounded by the dismal shade,"Thus to my Maker from the depths I said:"Though hid beneath the caverns of the main,"To thy blest temple will I look again,"Though from thy sight to utter darkness thrown,"Still will I trust, and trust on thee alone —"With anguish deep I felt the billows roll,"Scarce in her mansion stay'd my frighted soul;"About my head were wrapt the weeds of night,"And darkness, mingled with no ray of light;"I reached the caves the briny ocean fills,"I reached the bases of the infernal hills,"Earth, with her bars, encompass'd me around,"Yet, from the bottom of that dark profound"Where life no more the swelling vein supplies,"And death reposes, didst thou bid me rise."When fainting nature bow'd to thy decree,"And the lone spirit had prepar'd to flee,"Then from my prison I remember'd thee."My prayer towards thy heavenly temple came,"The temple sacred to Jehovah's name. —"Unhappy they, who vanities pursue,"And lies believing, their own souls undo —"But to thine ear my grateful song shall rise,"For thee shall smoke the atoning sacrifice,"My vows I'll pay at thy imperial throne,"Since my salvation was from thee alone."

Canto III

Once more the voice to humbled Jonah cameOf Him, who lives through every age the same:"Arise! and o'er the intervening waste"To Nineveh's exalted turrets haste,"And what to thee my Spirit shall reveal,"That preach – nor dare the sacred truth conceal —"To desolation I that town decree;"Proclaim destruction, and proclaim from me."Obedient to Jehovah's high command,The prophet rose, and left Judea's land,And now he near the spiry city drew,(Euphrates pass'd, and rapid Tigris too:)So vast the bulk of this prodigious place,Three days were scant its lengthy streets to trace;But as he enter'd, on the first sad day,Thus he began his tidings of dismay:"O Nineveh! to heaven's decree attend!"Yet forty days, and all thy glories end;"Yet forty days, the skies protract thy fall,"And desolation then shall bury all,"Thy proudest towers their utter ruin mourn,"And domes and temples unextinguished burn!"O Nineveh! the God of armies dooms"Thy thousand streets to never-ending glooms:"Through mouldering fanes the hollow winds shall roar,"And vultures scream where monarchy lodg'd before!"Thy guilty sons shall bow beneath the sword,"Thy captive matrons own a foreign lord. —"Such is the vengeance that the heavens decree,"Such is the ruin that must bury thee!"The people heard, and smit with instant fear,Believ'd the fatal warnings of the seer:This sudden ruin so their souls distrest,That each with sackcloth did his limbs invest,From him that glitter'd on the regal throne,To him that did beneath the burden groan. —Soon to their monarch came this voice of fate.Who left his throne and costly robes of state,And o'er his limbs a vest of sackcloth drew,And sate in ashes, sorrowful to view —His lords and nobles, now repentant grown,With equal grief their various sins bemoan,And through the city sent this loud decree,With threatening back'd, and dreadful penalty:"Ye Ninevites! your wonted food refrain,"Nor touch, ye beasts, the herbage of the plain,"Let all that live be humbled to the dust,"Nor taste the waters, though ye die of thirst;"Let men and beasts the garb of sorrow wear,"And beg yon' skies these guilty walls to spare:"Let all repent the evil they pursue,"And curse the mischief that their hands would do —"Perhaps that God, who leans to mercy still,"And sent a prophet to declare his will,"May yet the vengeance he designs, adjourn,"And, ere we perish, from his anger turn."Jehovah heard, and pleas'd beheld at lastTheir deep repentance for transgressions past,With pity moved, he heard the earnest prayerOf this vast city, humbled in despair;Though justly due, his anger dies away,He bids the angel of destruction stay: —The obedient angel hears the high command,And sheathes the sword, he drew to smite the land.

Canto IV

But anger swell'd the haughty prophet's breast,Rage burn'd within, and robb'd his soul of rest;Such was his pride, he wish'd they all in flameMight rather perish than belie his fame,And God's own bolts the tottering towers assail,And millions perish, than his word should fail.Then to the heavens he sent this peevish prayer —(Vain, impious man, to send such pinings there):"While yet within my native land, I stay'd,"This would at last reward my toil, I said,"Destruction through the Assyrian streets to cry,"And then the event my mission falsify;"For this I strove to shun thy sight before,"And sought repose upon a foreign shore;"I knew thou wert so gracious and so kind,"Such mercy sways thy all creating mind,"Averse thy bolts of vengeance to employ,"And still relenting when you should'st destroy,"That when I had declar'd thy sacred will,"Thou would'st not what I prophesy'd fulfil,"But leave me thus to scorn, contempt, and shame,"A lying prophet, blasted in my fame —"And now, I pray thee, grant my last request,"O take my life, so wretched and unblest!"If here I stay, 'tis but to grieve and sigh;"Then take my life – 'tis better far to die!""Is it thy place to swell with rage and pride,"(Thus to his pining prophet, God reply'd)"Say is it just thy heart should burn with ire"Because yon' city is not wrapt in fire?"What if I choose its ruin to delay,"And send destruction on some future day,"Must thou, for that, with wasting anguish sigh,"And, hostile to my pleasure, wish to die?"Then Jonah parted from the mourning town,And near its eastern limits sate him down,A booth he builded with assiduous care,(Form'd of the cypress boughs that flourish'd there)And anxious now beneath their shadow lay,Waiting the issue of the fortieth day —As yet uncertain if the Power DivineOr would to mercy, or to wrath incline —Meantime the leaves that roof'd his arbour o'er,Shrunk up and faded, sheltered him no more;But God ordain'd a thrifty gourd to rise,To screen his prophet from the scorching skies;High o'er his head aspired the spreading leaf,Too fondly meant to mitigate his grief.So close a foliage o'er his head was made,That not a beam could pierce the happy shade:The wondering seer perceiv'd the branches growAnd bless'd the shadow that reliev'd his woe;But when the next bright morn began to shine(So God ordain'd) a worm attack'd the vine,Beneath his bite its goodly leaves decay,And wasting, withering, die before the day!Then as the lamp of heaven still higher roseFrom eastern skies a sultry tempest blows,The vertic sun as fiercely pour'd his ray,And beam'd around insufferable day.How beat those beams on Jonah's fainting head!How oft he wish'd a place among the dead!All he could do, was now to grieve and sigh,His life detest, and beg of God to die.Again, Jehovah to his prophet said,"Art thou so angry for thy vanish'd shade —"For a mere shadow dost thou well to grieve,"For this poor loss would'st thou thy being leave?" —"My rage is just, (the frantic prophet cry'd),"My last, my only comfort is deny'd —"The spreading vine that form'd my leafy bower;"Behold it vanish'd in the needful hour!"To beating winds and sultry suns a prey,"My fainting spirit droops and dies away —"Give me a mansion in my native dust,"For though I die with rage, my rage is just."Once more the Almighty deign'd to make reply —"Does this lost gourd thy sorrow swell so high,"Whose friendly shade not to thy toil was due,"Alone it sprouted and alone it grew;"A night beheld its branches waving high,"And the next sun beheld those branches die;"And should not pity move the Lord of all"To spare the vast Assyrian capital,"Within whose walls uncounted myriads stray,"Their Father I, my sinful offspring they? —"Should they not move the creating mind"With six score thousand of the infant kind,"And herds untold that graze the spacious field,"For whom yon' meads their stores of fragrance yield;"Should I this royal city wrap in flame,"And slaughter millions to support thy fame,"When now repentant to their God they turn,"And their past follies, low in ashes, mourn? —"Vain, thoughtless wretch, recall thy weak request,"Death never came to man a welcome guest; —"Why wish to die – what madness prompts thy mind?"Too long the days of darkness thou shalt find;"Life was a blessing by thy Maker meant,"Dost thou despise the blessings he has lent —"Enjoy my gifts while yet the seasons run"True to their months, and social with the sun;"When to the dust my mandate bids thee fall,"All these are lost, for death conceals them all —"No more the sun illumes the sprightly day,"The seasons vanish, and the stars decay:"The trees, the flowers, no more thy sense delight,"Death shades them all in ever-during night."Then think not long the little space I lent —"Of thy own sins, like Nineveh, repent;"Rejoice at last the mighty change to see,"And bear with them as I have borne with thee."

THE ADVENTURES OF SIMON SWAUGUM, A VILLAGE MERCHANT30

Written in 1768

Preliminary Particulars

Sprung from a race that had long till'd the soil,And first disrobed it of its native trees,He wish'd to heir their lands, but not their toil,And thought the ploughman's life no life of ease; —"'Tis wrong (said he) these pretty hands to wound"With felling oaks, or delving in the ground:"I, who at least have forty pounds in cash"And in a country store might cut a dash,"Why should I till these barren fields (he said)"I who have learnt to cypher, write and read,"These fields that shrubs, and weeds, and brambles bear,"That pay me not, and only bring me care!"Some thoughts had he, long while, to quit the sod,In sea-port towns to try his luck in trade,But, then, their ways of living seem'd most odd —For dusty streets to leave his native shade,From grassy plats to pebbled walks removed —The more he thought of them, the less he loved:The city springs he could not drink, and stillPreferr'd the fountain near some bushy hill:And yet no splendid objects there were seen,No distant hills, in gaudy colours clad,Look where you would, the prospect was but mean,Scrub oaks, and scatter'd pines, and willows sad —Banks of a shallow river, stain'd with mud;A stream, where never swell'd the tide of flood,Nor lofty ship her topsails did unlose,Nor sailor sail'd, except in long canoes.It would have puzzled Faustus, to have told,What did attach him to this paltry spot;Where even the house he heir'd was very old,And all its outworks hardly worth a groat:Yet so it was, the fancy took his brainA country shop might here some custom gain:Whiskey, he knew, would always be in vogue,While there are country squires to take a cogue,Laces and lawns would draw each rural maid,And one must have her shawl, and one her shade. —

The Shop Described and the Merchant's Outset

Hard by the road a pigmy building stood,Thatch'd was its roof, and earthen were its floors;So small its size, that, in a jesting mood,It might be call'd a house turn'd out of doors —Yet here, adjacent to an aged oak,Full fifty years old dad his hams did smoke,Nor ceas'd the trade, 'till worn with years and spent,To Pluto's smoke-house he, himself, was sent.Hither our merchant turn'd his curious eye,And mused awhile upon this sable shell;"Here father smoked his hogs (he said) and why"In truth, may not our garret do as well?"So, down he took his hams and bacon flitches,Resolv'd to fill the place with other riches;From every hole and cranny brush'd the soot,And fixt up shelves throughout the crazy hut;A counter, too, most cunningly was plann'd,Behind whose breast-work none but he might stand,Excepting now and then, by special grace,Some brother merchant from some other place.Now, muster'd up his cash, and said his prayers,In Sunday suit he rigs himself for town,Two raw-boned steeds (design'd for great affairs)Are to the waggon hitch'd, old Bay and Brown;Who ne'er had been before a league from home,But now are doom'd full many a mile to roam,Like merchant-ships, a various freight to bringOf ribbons, lawns, and many a tawdry thing.Molasses too, blest sweet, was not forgot,And island Rum, that every taste delights,And teas, for maid and matron must be bought,Rosin and catgut strings for fiddling wights —But why should I his invoice here repeat?'Twould be like counting grains in pecks of wheat.Half Europe's goods were on his invoice found,And all was to be bought with forty pound!Soon as the early dawn proclaim'd the day,He cock'd his hat with pins, and comb'd his hair:Curious it was, and laughable to seeThe village-merchant, mounted in his chair:Shelves, piled with lawns and linens, in his head,Coatings and stuffs, and cloths, and scarlets red —All that would suit man, woman, girl, or boy;Muslins and muslinets, jeans, grograms, corduroy.Alack! said I, he little, little dreamsThat all the cash he guards with studious care —His cash! the mother of a thousand schemes,Will hardly buy a load of earthen ware!But why should I excite the hidden tearBy whispering truths ungrateful to his ear;Still let him travel on, with scheming pate,As disappointment never comes too late. —

His Journey to the Metropolis; and Mercantile Transactions

Through woods obscure and rough perplexing ways,Slow and alone, he urged the clumsy wheel;Now stopping short, to let his horses graze,Now treating them with straw and Indian meal:At length a lofty steeple caught his eye,"Higher (thought he) than ever kite did fly: —But so it is, these churchmen are so proudThey ever will be climbing to a cloud;Bound on a sky-blue cruise, they always rigThe longest steeple, and the largest wig."Now safe arrived upon the pebbled way,Where well-born steeds the rattling coaches trail,Where shops on shops are seen – and ladies gayWalk with their curtains some, and some their veil;Where sons of art their various labors shewAnd one cries fish! and one cries muffins ho!Amaz'd, alike, the merchant, and his pairOf scare-crow steeds, did nothing else but stare;So new was all the scene, that, smit with awe,They grinn'd, and gaz'd, and gap'd at all they saw,And often stopp'd, to ask at every door,"Sirs, can you tell us where's the cheapest store!""The cheapest store (a sly retailer said)"Cheaper than cheap, guid faith, I have to sell;"Here are some colour'd cloths that never fade:"No other shop can serve you half so well;"Wanting some money now, to pay my rent,"I'll sell them at a loss of ten per cent. —"Hum-hums are here – and muslins – what you please —"Bandanas, baftas, pullcats, India teas;"Improv'd by age, and now grown very old,"And given away, you may depend – not sold!"Lured by the bait the wily shopman laid,He gave his steeds their mess of straw and meal,Then gazing round the shop, thus, cautious said,"Well, if you sell so cheap, I think we'll deal;"But pray remember, 'tis for goods I'm come,"For, as to polecats, we've enough at home —"Full forty pounds I have, and that in gold"(Enough to make a trading man look bold)"Unrig your shelves, and let me take a peep;"'Tis odds I leave them bare, you sell so cheap."The city merchant stood, with lengthen'd jaws;And stared awhile, then made this short reply —"You clear my shelves! (he said) – this trunk of gauze"Is more than all your forty pounds can buy: —"On yonder board, whose burthen seems so small"That one man's pocket might contain it all,"More value lies, than you and all your race"From Adam down, could purchase or possess."Convinced, he turn'd him to another street,Where humbler shopmen from the crowd retreat;Here caught his eye coarse callicoes and crape,Pipes and tobacco, ticklenburghs and tape.Pitchers and pots, of value not so highBut he might sell, and forty pounds would buy.Some jugs, some pots, some fifty ells of tape,A keg of wine, a cask of low proof rum,Bung'd close – for fear the spirit should escapeThat many a sot was waiting for at home;A gross of pipes, a case of home-made gin,Tea, powder, shot – small parcels he laid in;Molasses, too, for swichell[A]-loving wights,(Swichell, that wings Sangrado's boldest flights,When bursting forth the wild ideas roll,Flash'd from that farthing-candle, call'd his soul:)All these he bought, and would have purchased more,To furnish out his Lilliputian store;But cash fell short – and they who smiled while yetThe cash remain'd, now took a serious fit: —No more the shop-girl could his talk endure,But, like her cat, sat sullen and demure. —The dull retailer found no more to say,But shook his head, and wish'd to sneak away,Leaving his house-dog, now, to make reply,And watch the counter with a lynx's eye. —Our merchant took the hint, and off he went,Resolv'd to sell at twenty-five per cent.

[A] Molasses and water: A beverage much used in the eastern states. —Freneau's note.

The Merchant's Return

Returning far o'er many a hill and stoneAnd much in dread his earthen ware would break,Thoughtful he rode, and uttering many a groanLest at some worm-hole vent his cask should leak —His cask, that held the joys of rural squireWhich even, 'twas said, the parson did admire,And valued more than all the dusty pagesThat Calvin penn'd, and fifty other sages —Once high in fame – beprais'd in verse and prose,But now unthumb'd, enjoy a sweet repose.At dusk of eve he reach'd his old abode,Around him quick his anxious townsmen came,One ask'd what luck had happ'd him on the road,And one ungear'd the mud-bespatter'd team.While on his cask each glanced a loving eye,Patient, to all he gave a brisk reply —Told all that had befallen him on his way,What wonders in the town detain'd his stay —"Houses as high as yonder white-oak tree"And boats of monstrous size that go to sea,"Streets throng'd with busy folk, like swarming hive;"The Lord knows how they all contrive to live —"No ploughs I saw, no hoes, no care, no charge,"In fact, they all are gentlemen at large,"And goods so thick on every window lie,"They all seem born to sell – and none to buy."

The Catastrophe, or theBroken Merchant

Alack-a-day! on life's uncertain roadHow many plagues, what evils must befal; —Jove has on none unmingled bliss bestow'd,But disappointment is the lot of all:Thieves rob our stores, in spite of locks and keys,Cats steal our cream, and rats infest our cheese,The gayest coat a grease-spot may assail,Or Susan pin a dish-clout to its tail, —Our village-merchant (trust me) had his shareOf vile mis-haps – for now, the goods unpackt,Discover'd, what might make a deacon swear,Jugs, cream-pots, pipes, and grog-bowls sadly crackt —A general groan throughout the crowd was heard;Most pitied him, and some his ruin fear'd;Poor wight! 'twas sad to see him fret and chafe,While each enquir'd, "Sir, is the rum-cask safe?"Alas! even that some mischief had endured; —One rascal hoop had started near the chine! —Then curiously the bung-hole they explored,With stem of pipe, the leakage to define —Five gallons must be charged to loss and gain! —" – Five gallons! (cry'd the merchant, writh'd with pain)"Now may the cooper never see full flask,"But still be driving at an empty cask —"Five gallons might have mellowed down the 'squire"And made the captain strut a full inch higher;"Five gallons might have prompted many a song,"And made a frolic more than five days long:"Five gallons now are lost, and – sad to think,"That when they leak'd – no soul was there to drink!"Now, slightly treated with a proof-glass dram,Each neighbour took his leave, and went to bed,All but our merchant: he, with grief o'ercome,Revolv'd strange notions in his scheming head —"For losses such as these, (thought he) 'tis meant,"That goods are sold at twenty-five per cent:"No doubt these trading men know what is just,"'Tis twenty-five times what they cost at first!"So rigging off his shelves by light of candle,The dismal smoke-house walls began to shine:Here, stood his tea-pots – some without a handle —A broken jar – and there his keg of wine;Pipes, many a dozen, ordered in a row;Jugs, mugs, and grog-bowls – less for sale than show:The leaky cask, replenish'd from the well,Roll'd to its birth – but we no tales will tell. —Catching the eye in elegant display,All was arranged and snug, by break of day:The blue dram-bottle, on the counter plac'd,Stood, all prepared for him that buys to taste; —Sure bait! by which the man of cash is taken,As rats are caught by cheese or scraps of bacon.Now from all parts the rural people ran,With ready cash, to buy what might be bought:One went to choose a pot, and one a pan,And they that had no pence their produce brought,A hog, a calf, safe halter'd by the neck;Potatoes (Ireland's glory) many a peck;Bacon and cheese, of real value moreThan India's gems, or all Potosi's ore.Some questions ask'd, the folks began to stare —No soul would purchase, pipe, or pot, or pan:Each shook his head – hung back – "Your goods so dear!"In fact (said they) the devil's in the man!"Rum ne'er shall meet my lips (cry'd honest Sam)"In shape of toddy, punch, grog, sling, or dram;"No cash of mine you'll get (said pouting Kate)"While gauze is valued at so dear a rate."Thus things dragg'd on for many a tedious day;No custom came; and nought but discontentGloom'd through the shop. – "Well, let them have their way,(The merchant said) I'll sell at cent per cent,"By which, 'tis plain, I scarce myself can save,"For cent per cent is just the price I gave.""Now! (cry'd the squire who still had kept his pence)"Now, Sir, you reason like a man of sense!"Custom will now from every quarter come;"In joyous streams shall flow the inspiring rum,"'Till every soul in pleasing dreams be sunk,"And even our Socrates himself – is drunk!"Soon were the shelves disburthen'd of their load;In three short hours the kegs of wine ran dry —Swift from its tap even dull molasses flow'd;Each saw the rum cask wasting, with a sigh —The farce concluded, as it was foreseen —With empty shelves – long trust – and law suits keen —The woods resounding with a curse on trade, —An empty purse – sour looks – and hanging head. —

The Puncheon's Eulogy

"Here lies a worthy corpse (Sangrado said)"Its debt to Commerce now, no doubt, is paid. —"Well – 'twas a vile disease that kill'd it, sure,"A quick consumption, that no art could cure!"Thus shall we all, when life's vain dream is out,"Be lodg'd in corners dark, or kick'd about!"Time is the tapster of our race below,"That turns the key, and bids the juices flow:"Quitting my books, henceforth be mine the task"To moralize upon this empty cask —"Thank heaven we've had the taste – so far 'twas well;"And still, thro' mercy, may enjoy the smell!"

Epilogue31

Well! – strange it is, that men will still applyThings to themselves, that authors never meant:Each country merchant asks me, "Is it IOn whom your rhyming ridicule is spent?"Friends, hold your tongues – such myriads of your raceAdorn Columbia's fertile, favour'd climes,A man might rove seven years from place to placeEre he would know the subject of my rhymes. —Perhaps in Jersey is this creature known,Perhaps New-England claims him for her own:And if from Fancy's world this wight I drew,What is the imagin'd character to you?"

THE PYRAMIDS OF EGYPT32

Debemur morti nos nostraque!

A Dialogue. Written in 1770 Scene.– Egypt. Persons.– Traveller, Genius, TimeTravellerWhere are those famed piles of human grandeur,Those sphinxes, pyramids, and Pompey's pillar,That bid defiance to the arm of Time —Tell me, dear Genius: for I long to see them.GeniusAt Alexandria rises Pompey's pillar,Whose birth is but of yesterday, compar'dWith those prodigious fabricks that you seeO'er yonder distant plain – upon whose breastOld Nile hath never roll'd his swelling streams,The only plain so privileg'd in Egypt.These pyramids may well excite your wonder,They are of most remote antiquity,Almost co-eval with those cloud-crown'd hillsThat westward from them rise – 'twas the same ageThat saw old Babel's tower aspiring high,When first the sage Egyptian architectsThese ancient turrets to the heavens rais'd; —But Babel's tower is gone, and these remain!TravellerOld Rome I thought unrivall'd in her years,At least the remnants that we find of Rome,But these, you tell me, are of older date.GeniusTalk not of Rome! – before they lopt a bushFrom the seven hills where Rome, earth's empress, stood,These pyramids were old – their birth day isBeyond tradition's reach, or history.TravellerThen let us haste toward those piles of wonderThat scorn to bend beneath this weight of years —Lo! to my view, the aweful mansions riseThe pride of art, the sleeping place of death!Are these the four prodigious monumentsThat so astonish every generation —Let us examine this, the first and greatest —A secret horror chills my breast, dear Genius,To touch these monuments that are so ancient,The fearful property of ghosts and death! —Yet of such mighty bulk that I presumeA race of giants were the architects. —Since these proud fabricks to the heavens were rais'dHow many generations have decay'd,How many monarchies to ruin pass'd!How many empires had their rise and fall!While these remain – and promise to remainAs long as yonder sun shall gild their summits,Or moon or stars their wonted circles run.GeniusThe time will comeWhen these stupendous piles you deem immortal,Worn out with age, shall moulder on their bases,And down, down, low to endless ruin verging,O'erwhelm'd by dust, be seen and known no more! —Ages ago, in dark oblivion's lapHad they been shrouded, but the atmosphereIn these parch'd climates, hostile to decay,Is pregnant with no rain, that by its moistureMight waste their bulk in such excess of time,And prove them merely mortal.'Twas on this plain the ancient Memphis stood,Her walls encircled these tall pyramids —But where is Pharoah's palace, where the domesOf Egypt's haughty lords? – all, all are gone,And like the phantom snows of a May morningLeft not a vestige to discover them!TravellerHow shall I reach the vortex of this pile —How shall I clamber up its shelving sides?I scarce endure to glance toward the summit,It seems among the clouds – When was't thou rais'd,O work of more than mortal majesty —Was this produc'd by persevering man,Or did the gods erect this pyramid?GeniusNor gods, nor giants rais'd this pyramid —It was the toil of mortals like yourselfThat swell'd it to the skies —See'st thou yon' little door? Through that they pass'd,Who rais'd so high this aggregate of wonders!What cannot tyrants do,When they have subject nations at their will,And the world's wealth to gratify ambition!Millions of slaves beneath their labours faintedWho here were doom'd to toil incessantly,And years elaps'd while groaning myriads stroveTo raise this mighty tomb – and but to hideThe worthless bones of an Egyptian king. —O wretch, could not a humbler tomb have done,Could nothing but a pyramid inter thee!TravellerPerhaps old Jacob's race, when here oppress'd,Rais'd, in their years of bondage this dread pile.GeniusBefore the Jewish patriarchs saw the light,While yet the globe was in its infancyThese were erected to the pride of man —Four thousand years have run their tedious roundSince these smooth stones were on each other laid,Four thousand more may run as dull a roundEre Egypt sees her pyramids decay'd.TravellerBut suffer me to enter, and beholdThe interior wonders of this edifice.Genius'Tis darkness all, with hateful silence join'd —Here drowsy bats enjoy a dull repose,And marble coffins, vacant of their bones,Show where the royal dead in ruin lay!By every pyramid a temple roseWhere oft in concert those of ancient timeSung to their goddess Isis hymns of praise;But these are fallen! – their columns too superbAre levell'd with the dust – nor these alone —Where is thy vocal statue, Memnon, now,That once, responsive to the morning beams,Harmoniously to father Phœbus sung!Where is the image that in past time stoodHigh on the summit of yon' pyramid? —Still may you see its polish'd pedestal —Where art thou ancient Thebes? – all bury'd low,All vanish'd! crumbled into mother dust,And nothing of antiquity remainsBut these huge pyramids, and yonder hills.TimeOld Babel's tower hath felt my potent armI ruin'd Ecbatan and Babylon,Thy huge Colossus, Rhodes, I tumbled down,And on these pyramids I smote my scythe;But they resist its edge – then let them stand.But I can boast a greater feat than this,I long ago have shrouded those in deathWho made those structures rebels to my power —But, O return! – These piles are not immortal!This earth, with all its balls of hills and mountains,Shall perish by my hand – then how can these,These hoary headed pyramids of Egypt,That are but dwindled warts upon her body,That on a little, little spot of groundExtinguish the dull radiance of the sun,Be proof to Death and me? – Traveller return —There's nought but God immortal – He aloneExists secure, when Man, and Death, and Time,(Time not immortal, but a fancied pointIn the vast circle of eternity)Are swallow'd up, and, like the pyramids,Leave not an atom for their monument!