The Poems of Philip Freneau Volume III Part 8

"Thrice happy age, when all was new, And trees untouched, unenvied grew, When yet regardless of the axe, They feared no law, and paid no tax!

The shepherd then at ease was laid, Or walked beneath their cooling shade; From slender twigs a garland wove, Or traced his G.o.d within the grove; Alas! those times are now forgot, An iron age is all our lot: Men are not now what once they were, To h.o.a.rd up gold is all their care: The busy tribe old Plutus calls To pebbled streets and painted walls; Trees now to grow, is held a crime, And These must perish in their prime!

"The trees that once our fathers reared, And even the plundering Briton spared, When s.h.i.+vering here full oft he stood, Or kept his bed for want of wood-- These trees, whose gently bending boughs Have witnessed many a lover's vows, When half afraid, and half in jest, With Nature busy in his breast, With many a sigh, he did not feign, Beneath these boughs he told his pain, Or coaxing here his nymph by night, Forsook the parlour and the light, In talking love, his greatest bliss To squeeze her hand or steal a kiss-- These trees that thus have lent their shade, And many a happy couple made, These old companions, thus endeared, Who never tattled what they heard, Must these, indeed, be killed so soon-- Be murdered by the tenth of June!

"But if my harmless trees must fall, A fortune that awaits us all, (All, all must yield to Nature's stroke, And now a man, and now an oak) Are those that round the churches grow In this decree included too?

Must these, like common trees, be bled?

Is it a crime to shade the dead?

Review the law, I pray, at least, And have some mercy on the priest Who every Sunday sweats in black To make us steer the skyward track: The church has lost enough, G.o.d knows, Plundered alike by friends and foes-- I hate such mean attempts as these-- Come--let the parson keep his trees!

"Yet things, perhaps, are not so bad-- Perhaps, a respite may be had: The vilest rogues that cut our throats, Or knaves that counterfeit our notes, When, by the judge their sentence pa.s.sed, The gallows proves their doom at last, Swindlers and pests of every kind, For weeks and months a respite find; And shall such nuisances as they, Who make all honest men their prey-- Shall they for months avoid their doom, And you, my trees, in all your bloom, Who never injured small or great, Be murdered at so short a date!

"Ye men of law, the occasion seize, And name a counsel for the trees-- Arrest of judgment, sirs, I pray; Excuse them till some future day: These trees that such a nuisance are, Next New-Year we can better spare, To warm our s.h.i.+ns, or boil the pot-- The Law, by then, will be forgot."

[44] This was published in the _National Gazette_ of March 8, 1792, with this introduction: "Legislatures and city corporations have ever been inimical to trees in cities.--About nine years ago the attempt was made in Philadelphia to cut down all the trees--The public, however, demurred to the decree, which, together with Mr. Hopkinson's Columnal Orator, saved the lives of these useful and amusing companions.

"In a neighboring city, a similar attempt was made about a year ago by its corporation. A universal extirpation was ordered, without respect to age or quality, by the 10th of June, 1791.--The public interfered in this, as in the other case, and the trees were saved,* except a few, which having been injudiciously placed, above a century ago, had nearly grown into the inhabitants' houses; and consequently suffered the sentence of the law.... * _A copy of verses, on this occasion, were as follow_: THE LANDLORD'S SOLILOQUY, etc."

TO THE PUBLIC[45]

This age is so fertile of mighty events, That people complain, with some reason, no doubt, Besides the time lost, and besides the expence, With reading the papers they're fairly worn out; The past is no longer an object of care, The present consumes all the time they can spare.

Thus grumbles the reader, but still he reads on With his pence and his paper unwilling to part: He sees the world pa.s.sing, men going and gone, Some riding in coaches, and some in a cart: For a peep at the farce a subscription he'll give,-- Revolutions must happen, and printers must live:

For a share of your favour we aim with the rest: To enliven the scene we'll exert all our skill, What we have to impart shall be some of the best, And _Multum in Parvo_ our text, if you will; Since we never admitted a clause in our creed, That the greatest employment of life is--to read.

The king of the French and the queen of the North At the head of the play, for the season, we find: From the spark that we kindled, a flame has gone forth To astonish the world and enlighten mankind: With a code of new doctrines the universe rings, And Paine is addressing strange sermons to kings.

Thus launch'd, as we are, on the ocean of news, In hopes that your pleasure our pains will repay, All honest endeavours the author will use To furnish a feast for the grave and the gay: At least he'll essay such a track to pursue That the world shall approve--and his news shall be true.

[45] First published in number one of the _National Gazette_, October 31, 1791, under the t.i.tle "Poetical Address to the Public of the United States." It was Freneau's salutatory at the beginning of his new career in Philadelphia. Text from the edition of 1795. The poem was omitted from the edition of 1809.

LINES[46]

By H. Salem, on his Return from Calcutta

Your men of the land, from the king to Jack Ketch, All join in supposing the sailor a wretch, That his life is a round of vexation and woe, With always too much or too little to do: In the dead of the night, when other men sleep, He, starboard and larboard, his watches must keep; Imprisoned by Neptune, he lives like a dog, And to know where he is, must depend on a Log, Must fret in a calm, and be sad in a storm; In winter much trouble to keep himself warm: Through the heat of the summer pursuing his trade, No trees, but his topmasts, to yield him a shade: Then, add to the list of the mariner's evils, The water corrupted, the bread full of weevils, Salt junk to be eat, be it better or worse, And, often bull beef of an Irishman's horse: Whosoever is free, he must still be a slave, (Despotic is always the rule on the wave;) Not relished on water, your lords of the main Abhor the republican doctrines of Paine, And each, like the despot of Prussia, may say That his crew has no right, but the right to obey.

Such things say the lubbers, and sigh when they've said 'em, But things are not so bad as their fancies persuade 'em: There ne'er was a task but afforded some ease, Nor a calling in life, but had something to please.

If the sea has its storms, it has also its calms, A time to sing songs and a time to sing psalms.-- Yes--give me a vessel well timbered and sound, Her bottom good plank, and in rigging well found, If her spars are but staunch, and her oakham swelled tight, From tempests and storms I'll extract some delight-- At sea I would rather have Neptune my jailor, Than a lubber on sh.o.r.e, that despises a sailor.

Do they ask me what pleasure I find on the sea?-- Why, absence from land is a pleasure to me: A hamper of porter, and plenty of grog, A friend, when too sleepy, to give me a jog, A coop that will always some poultry afford, Some bottles of gin, and no parson on board, A crew that is brisk when it happens to blow, One compa.s.s on deck and another below, A girl, with more sense than the girl at the head, To read me a novel, or make up my bed-- The man that has these, has a treasure in store That millions possess not, who live upon sh.o.r.e: But if it should happen that commerce grew dull, Or Neptune, ill-humoured, should batter our hull, Should damage my cargo, or heave me aground, Or pay me with farthings instead of a pound: Should I always be left in the rear of the race, And this be forever--forever the case; Why then, if the honest plain truth I may tell, I would clew up my topsails, and bid him farewell.

[46] Published in the _National Gazette_, November 14, 1791, under the t.i.tle "A Mistake Rectified." Included in the 1795 edition with the t.i.tle, "Epistle to a Desponding Sea-man." Text from the edition of 1809.

It is very doubtful if Freneau ever sailed to Calcutta.

MODERN DEVOTION[47]

[By H. Salem]

To church I went, with good intent, To hear Sangrado preach and pray; But objects there, black, brown and fair, Turned eyes and heart a different way.

Miss Patty's fan, Miss Molly's man, With powdered hair and dimple cheek; Miss Bridget's eyes, that once made prize Of Fopling with his hair so sleek:

Embroidered gowns, and play-house tunes Estranged all hearts from heaven too wide: I felt most odd, this house of G.o.d Should all be flutter, pomp, and pride.

Now, pray be wise, no prayers will rise To heaven--where hearts are not sincere.

No church was made for Cupid's trade; Then why these arts of ogling here?

Since time draws nigh, when you and I, At church, must claim the s.e.xton's care!-- Leave pride at home, when'er you come To pay to heaven your offerings, there!

[47] Published in the _National Gazette_, December 5, 1791. Text from the edition of 1809.

THE COUNTRY PRINTER[48]

I.

DESCRIPTION OF HIS VILLAGE

Beside a stream, that never yet ran dry, There stands a Town, not high advanced in fame; Tho' few its buildings raised to please the eye, Still this proud t.i.tle it may fairly claim; A Tavern (its first requisite) is there, A mill, a black-smith's shop, a place of prayer.

Nay, more--a little market-house is seen And iron hooks, where beef was never hung, Nor pork, nor bacon, poultry fat or lean, Pig's head, or sausage link, or bullock's tongue: Look when you will, you see the vacant bench No butcher seated there, no country wench.

Great aims were his, who first contriv'd this town; A market he would have--but, humbled now, Sighing, we see its fabric mouldering down, That only serves, at night, to pen the cow: And hence, by way of jest, it may be said That beef is there, tho' never beef that's dead.

Abreast the inn--a tree before the door, A Printing-Office lifts its humble head Where busy Type old journals doth explore For news that is thro' all the village read; Who, year from year, (so cruel is his lot) Is author, pressman, devil--and what not?

Fame says he is an odd and curious wight, Fond to distraction of this native place; In sense, not very dull nor very bright, Yet shews some marks of humour in his face, One who can pen an anecdote, complete, Or plague the parson with the mackled sheet.

Three times a week, by nimble geldings drawn A stage arrives; but scarcely deigns to stop, Unless the driver, far in liquor gone, Has made some business for the black-smith-shop; Then comes this printer's harvest-time of news, Welcome alike from Christians, Turks, or Jews.