The Poems of Philip Freneau Volume III Part 46

But hold,--who knows if these who soundly sleep, Would not, alive, have made some orphan weep, Or plunged some slumbering victim in the deep.

There may be here, who once were virtue's foes, A curse through life, the cause of many woes, Who wrong'd the widow, and disturb'd repose.

There may be here, who with malicious aim Did all they could to wound another's fame, Steal character, and filch away good name.

Perhaps yond' solitary turf invests Some who, when living, were the social pests, Patrons of ribands, t.i.tles, crowns and crests.

Can we on such a kindred tear bestow?

They, who, in life, were every just man's foe, A plague to all about them!--oh, no, no.

What though sepultured with the funeral whine; Why, sorrowing on such tombs should we recline, Where truth, perhaps, has hardly penn'd a line.

--Yet, what if here some honest man is laid Whom nature of her best materials made, Who all respect to sacred honor paid.

Gentle, humane, benevolent, and just, (Though now forgot and mingled with the dust, There may be such, and such there are we trust.)

Yes--for the sake of that one honest man We would on knaves themselves bestow a tear, Think nature form'd them on some crooked plan, And say, peace rest on all that slumber here.

[192] From the edition of 1815.

STANZAS OCCASIONED BY A MELANCHOLY

SURVEY OF AN OLD ENGLISH TOBACCO BOX INSCRIBED 1708[193]

Written in a dearth of tobacco, by Hezekiah Salem.

Had I but what this box contained Since good Queen Anne in Britain reigned, My happiness would be increased To more, perhaps, than she possessed.

This box, in many a pocket worn (And to be used by some unborn) Has been unfilled a week or more, And curses the tobacco store,

Which now has had its turn to fail; The door shut up, the man in jail Who late behind the counter stood And vended what was pretty good.

("And are you here?--the turnkey said, "I rather would have seen you dead!"-- --Yes! I am here--the man replied-- And better so than to have died!)

This box again, in spite of that, Shall be repackt with--I know what-- Again I'll fill its empty chest With old Virginia's very best.

The fragrance of that mild perfume Again shall cheer the reading room, Again delight your men of wit Who have the taste to relish it.

This box I deem a small estate Where all my prospects are complete, Whose oval round, and clasp, confines The riches of Potosi's mines.

My best ideas here are sown, (And best expressed when most alone) Here, every muse can find a place Yet take no atom of its s.p.a.ce.

Tobacco! what to thee we owe, Is what alone true smokers know: To thee they owe the lively thought, And joys without repentance bought.

To thee they owe the moral song, The night that never seems too long, The pleasant dream, refres.h.i.+ng sleep, And sense that all should strive to keep.

It cures the pride of self-debate, And pensive care, and deadly hate; And love itself would nearer bring, Did females love this coaxing thing.--

But they, the slaves of custom's rule, Are ever to the smoker cool, And hate the plant, whose gentle sway Bids us their noisy tongues obey.

The happy days I would recall When Jane to me was all in all!

The firm we to the town did show Was, Salem, Jane, Segar, and Co.

The sanded box was near us placed Which held the dregs we chose to waste; Thus pleased to pa.s.s the winter's eve, And thus the lingering hours deceive.

No wrangling was permitted there-- 'Twas friends.h.i.+p all, and love sincere; And they received affronts enough Who entered with the Cloven Hoof.

The social whiff went cheerly on!-- But Jane is to that people gone Where dear tobacco!--strong and sound-- Is not upon their invoice found!--

It sheds a magic on my pen To deaden all despotic men, A charm that can the soul command, Nor kings, nor courtiers shall withstand:

Such, vested with imperial sway, O'er bodies reign, dull, stupid, blind; But us the n.o.bler powers obey, We reign, despotic, o'er the mind!

It aids us in the tuneful art To catch the ear, or move the heart; An hour with Nancy can beguile, But meets not her approving smile.

Of northern pine her floors were made, A carpet on the boards was spread; And who shall dare this floor prophane, Which Nancy keeps without a stain?

The watchful demon in her eye The smallest speck can there espy; And he shall curse his natal hour Who spits upon this velvet floor:

I saw her anger waxing hot, I heard her threaten, Do it not, Or, instant, quit these doors of mine, And be converted into swine.--

This powerful plant, if fortune frown, Can make the bitter draught go down; It keeps me warm in Greenland's frost, And gives me more than all I lost.

The joys of wine, without its bane, That kindles frenzy in the brain; All these are here--and more than these In this tobacco box I'll squeeze.

It holds a part of all I prize Within this world that bounded lies; And when the ashes only shows, The spirit into aether goes.

Dismissed to that Serene Abode, Where no tobacco is allowed!---- The comfort is, that free from care, We neither wish, nor want it There.

[193] From the edition of 1809.

ON THE DEATH OF A MASTER BUILDER

Or Free Mason of High Rank[194]

(Written by Request.)

a.s.sembled this day on occasion of grief, We mourn the occasion, the loss of our chief; A Mason, our master, that built up a pile By the compa.s.s and square in the masonic style.