The Poems of Philip Freneau Volume II Part 2

[6] First published in the _United States Magazine_, December, 1779. The test follows the edition of 1786.

"Early in June, the French fleet of thirty-one s.h.i.+ps of the line, yielding to Spanish importunities, put to sea from Brest; and yet they were obliged to wait off the coast of Spain for the Spaniards. After a loss of two months in the best season of the year, a junction was effected with more than twenty s.h.i.+ps of war under the command of ...

Count Gaston; and the combined fleet, the largest force that had ever been afloat, sailed for the British Channel.... The united fleet rode unmolested by the British.... On the 16th of August they appeared off Plymouth, but did not attack the town. After two idle days a strong wind drove them to the west; when the gale had abated, the allies rallied, returned up the channel, and the British retreated before them. No harmony existed between the French and Spanish officers. A deadly malady ravaged the French s.h.i.+ps and infected the Spanish. The combined fleet never had one chief. The French returned to port and remained there; the Spaniards sailed for Cadiz, execrating their allies."--_Bancroft._

[7] "Charly Fox."--_Ed. 1795._

[8] Fox's opposition to the American war is too well known to need comment.

[9] "Their cause."--_Ed. 1795._

[10] "Sufferings."--_Ed. 1809._

[11] "G.o.ds."--_Ed. 1795._

[12] "We."--_Ib._

[13] "_Sackville._"--_Ed. 1795._

[14] "Thundering."--_Ib._

[15] "Careless."--_Ib._

[16] "Our."--_Ed. 1795._

[17] "Us."--_Ib._

[18] "Our."--_Ib._

[19] "George."--_Ed. 1795._

[20] This and the following seventeen lines omitted from the edition of 1795.

[21] "Instant."--_Ed. 1795._

[22] "Catharine."--_Ib._

[23] "Her oceans."--_Ib._

[24] "Cunning."--_Ed. 1809._

[25] "The Frenchman's."--_Ed. 1795._

THE BRITISH PRISON s.h.i.+P[26]

Written 1780

CANTO I.--THE CAPTURE

_Amid these ills no tyrant dared refuse My right to pen the dictates of the muse, To paint the terrors of the infernal place, And fiends from Europe, insolent as base._

a.s.sist me, Clio! while in verse I tell The dire misfortunes that a s.h.i.+p befell, Which outward bound, to St. Eustatia's sh.o.r.e, Death and disaster through the billows bore.

From Philadelphia's crowded port she came; For there the builder plann'd her lofty frame, With wond'rous skill, and excellence of art He form'd, dispos'd, and order'd every part, With joy beheld the stately fabric rise To a stout bulwark of stupendous size, 'Till launch'd at last, capacious of the freight, He left her to the Pilots, and her fate.

First from her depths the tapering masts ascend, On whose firm bulk the transverse yards depend, By shrouds and stays secur'd from side to side Trees grew on trees, suspended o'er the tide, Firm to the yards extended, broad and vast They hung the sails susceptive of the blast, Far o'er the prow the lengthy bowsprit lay, Supporting on the extreme the taught Gib-stay, Twice ten six pounders at their port holes plac'd And rang'd in rows, stood hostile in the waist: Thus all prepar'd, impatient for the seas, She left her station with an adverse breeze, This her first outset from her native sh.o.r.e, To seas a stranger, and untry'd before.

From the bright radiance that his glories spread Ere from the east gay Phoebus lifts his head, From the sweet morn, a kindred name she won, _Aurora_ call'd, the offspring of the sun, Whose form projecting, the broad prow displays, Far glittering o'er the wave, a mimic blaze.

The gay s.h.i.+p now, in all her pomp and pride, With sails expanded, flew along the tide; 'Twas thy deep stream, O Delaware, that bore This pile intended for a southern sh.o.r.e, Bound to those isles where endless summer reigns, Fair fruits, gay blossoms, and enamell'd plains; Where sloping lawns the roving swain invite, And the cool morn succeeds the breezy night, Where each glad day a heaven unclouded brings And sky-topt mountains teem with golden springs.

From Cape Henlopen, urg'd by favouring gales, When morn emerg'd, we sea-ward spread our sails, Then east-south-east explor'd the briny way, Close to the wind, departing from the bay; No longer seen the hoa.r.s.e resounding strand, With hearts elate we hurried from the land, Escap'd the dangers of that shelvy ground, To sailors fatal, and for wrecks renown'd.-- The gale increases as we stem the main, Now scarce the hills their sky-blue mist retain, At last they sink beneath the rolling wave That seems their summits, as they sink, to lave; Abaft the beam the freshening breezes play, No mists advancing to deform the day, No tempests rising o'er the splendid scene, A sea unruffled, and a heaven serene.

Now Sol's bright lamp, the heav'n born source of light, Had pa.s.s'd the line of his meridian height, And westward hung--retreating from the view Sh.o.r.es disappear'd, and every hill withdrew, When, still suspicious of some neighbouring foe, Aloft the Master bade a Seaman go, To mark if, from the mast's aspiring height Through all the round a vessel came in sight.

Too soon the Seaman's glance, extending wide, Far distant in the east a s.h.i.+p espy'd, Her lofty masts stood bending to the gale, Close to the wind was brac'd each s.h.i.+vering sail; Next from the deck we saw the approaching foe, Her spangled bottom seem'd in flames to glow When to the winds she bow'd in dreadful haste And her lee-guns lay delug'd in the waste: From her top-gallant flow'd an English Jack; With all her might she strove to gain our track, Nor strove in vain--with pride and power elate, Wing'd on by h.e.l.l, she drove us to our fate; No stop no stay her b.l.o.o.d.y crew intends, (So flies a comet with its host of fiends) Nor oaths, nor prayers arrest her swift career, Death in her front, and ruin in her rear.

Struck at the sight, the Master gave command To change our course, and steer toward the land-- Swift to the task the ready sailors run, And while the word was utter'd, half was done: As from the south the fiercer breezes rise Swift from her foe alarm'd Aurora flies, With every sail extended to the wind She fled the unequal foe that chac'd behind; Along her decks dispos'd in close array Each at its port, the grim artillery lay, Soon on the foe with brazen throat to roar; But, small their size, and narrow was their bore; Yet faithful they their destin'd station keep To guard the barque that wafts them o'er the deep, Who now must bend to steer a homeward course And trust her swiftness rather than her force, Unfit to combat with a powerful foe; Her decks too open, and her waist too low.

While o'er the wave with foaming prow she flies, Once more emerging, distant landscapes rise; High in the air the starry streamer plays, And every sail its various tribute pays: To gain the land we bore the weighty blast; And now the wish'd for cape appear'd at last; But the vext foe, impatient of delay, Prepar'd for ruin, press'd upon her prey; Near, and more near, in aweful grandeur came The frigate _Iris_, not unknown to fame; _Iris_ her name, but _Hanc.o.c.k_ once she bore, Fram'd and completed on New Albion's sh.o.r.e, By Manly lost, the swiftest of the train That fly with wings of canvas o'er the main.

Now, while for combat some with zeal prepare, Thus to the heavens the Boatswain sent his prayer: "List, all ye powers that rule the skies and seas!

"Shower down perdition on such thieves as these, "Fate, strike their hearts with terror and dismay, "And sprinkle on their powder salt-sea spray!

"May bursting cannon, while his aim he tries, "Destroy the Gunner, and be-d.a.m.n his eyes-- "The chief who awes the quarter-deck, may he, "Tripp'd from his stand, be tumbled in the sea.

"May they who rule the round-top's giddy height "Be canted headlong to perpetual night; "May fiends torment them on a leeward coast, "And help forsake them when they want it most-- "From their wheel'd engines torn be every gun-- "And now, to sum up every curse in one, "May latent flames, to save us, intervene, "And h.e.l.l-ward drive them from their magazine!"-- The Frigate now had every sail unfurl'd, And rush'd tremendous o'er the wat'ry world; Thus fierce Pelides, eager to destroy, Chac'd the proud Trojan to the gates of Troy-- Swift o'er the waves while hostile they pursue As swiftly from their fangs _Aurora_ flew, At length Henlopen's cape we gain'd once more, And vainly strove to force the s.h.i.+p ash.o.r.e; Stern fate forbade the barren sh.o.r.e to gain, Denial sad, and source of future pain!

For then the inspiring breezes ceas'd to blow, Lost were they all, and smooth the seas below; By the broad cape becalm'd, our lifeless sails No longer swell'd their bosoms to the gales; The s.h.i.+p, unable to pursue her way, Tumbling about, at her own guidance lay, No more the helm its wonted influence lends, No oars a.s.sist us, and no breeze befriends; Meantime the foe, advancing from the sea, Rang'd her black cannon, pointed on our lee, Then up she luff'd, and blaz'd her entrails dire, Bearing destruction, terror, death and fire.

Vext at our fate, we prim'd a piece, and then Return'd the shot, to shew them we were men.

Dull night at length her dusky pinions spread, And every hope to 'scape the foe was fled; Close to thy cape, Henlopen, though we press'd, We could not gain thy desert, dreary breast; Though ruin'd trees beshroud thy barren sh.o.r.e With mounds of sand half hid, or cover'd o'er, Though ruffian winds disturb thy summit bare, Yet every hope and every wish was there; In vain we sought to reach the joyless strand, Fate stood between, and barr'd us from the land.

All dead becalm'd, and helpless as we lay, The ebbing current forc'd us back to sea, While vengeful _Iris_, thirsting for our blood, Flash'd her red lightnings o'er the trembling flood, At every flash a storm of ruin came 'Till our shock'd vessel shook through all her frame-- Mad for revenge, our b.r.e.a.s.t.s with fury glow To wreak returns of vengeance on the foe; Full at his hull our pointed guns we rais'd, His hull resounded as the cannon blaz'd; Through his main top-sail one a pa.s.sage tore, His sides re-echo'd to the dreadful roar, Alternate fires dispell'd the shades of night-- But how unequal was this daring fight!

Our stoutest guns threw but a six-pound ball, Twelve pounders from the foe our sides did maul, And, while no power to save him intervenes, A bullet struck our captain of Marines; Fierce, though he bid defiance to the foe He felt his death and ruin in the blow, Headlong he fell, distracted with the wound, The deck distain'd, and heart blood streaming round.

Another blast, as fatal in its aim, Wing'd by destruction, through our rigging came, And, whistling tunes from h.e.l.l upon its way, Shrouds, stays, and braces tore at once away, Sails, blocks, and oars in scatter'd fragments fly-- Their softest language was--_submit, or die!_ Repeated cries throughout the s.h.i.+p resound; Now every bullet brought a different wound; 'Twixt wind and water, one a.s.sail'd the side, Through this aperture rush'd the briny tide-- 'Twas then the Master trembled for his crew, And bade thy sh.o.r.es, O Delaware, adieu!-- And must we yield to yon' destructive ball, And must our colours to these ruffians fall!-- They fall!--his thunders forc'd our pride to bend, The lofty topsails with their yards descend, And the proud foe, such leagues of ocean pa.s.s'd, His wish completed in our woe at last.

Convey'd to York, we found, at length, too late, That Death was better than the prisoner's fate; There doom'd to famine, shackles and despair, Condemn'd to breathe a foul, infected air In sickly hulks, devoted while we lay, Successive funerals gloom'd each dismal day-- But what on captives British rage can do, Another Canto, friend, shall let you know.

CANTO II.--THE PRISON s.h.i.+P

The various horrors of these hulks to tell, These Prison s.h.i.+ps where pain and horror dwell, Where death in tenfold vengeance holds his reign, And injur'd ghosts, yet unaveng'd, complain; This be my task--ungenerous Britons, you Conspire to murder those you can't subdue.-- Weak as I am, I'll try my strength to-day And my best arrows at these h.e.l.l-hounds play, To future years one scene of death prolong, And hang them up to infamy, in song.

That Britain's rage should dye our plains with gore, And desolation spread through every sh.o.r.e, None e'er could doubt, that her ambition knew, This was to rage and disappointment due; But that those monsters whom our soil maintain'd, Who first drew breath in this devoted land, Like famish'd wolves, should on their country prey, a.s.sist its foes, and wrest our lives away, This shocks belief--and bids our soil disown Such friends, subservient to a bankrupt crown, By them the widow mourns her partner dead, Her mangled sons to darksome prisons led, By them--and hence my keenest sorrows rise, My friend, my guardian, my Orestes dies; Still for that loss must wretched I complain, And sad Ophelia mourn her favourite swain.

Ah! come the day when from this b.l.o.o.d.y sh.o.r.e Fate shall remove them to return no more-- To scorch'd Bahama shall the traitors go With grief and rage, and unremitting woe, On burning sands to walk their painful round, And sigh through all the solitary ground, Where no gay flower their haggard eyes shall see, And find no shade but from the cypress tree.

So much we suffer'd from the tribe I hate, So near they shov'd me to the brink of fate, When two long months in these dark hulks we lay,[27]

Barr'd down by night, and fainting all the day In the fierce fervours of the solar beam, Cool'd by no breeze on Hudson's mountain-stream; That not unsung these threescore days shall fall To black oblivion that would cover all!-- No masts or sails these crowded s.h.i.+ps adorn, Dismal to view, neglected and forlorn!

Here, mighty ills oppress the imprison'd throng, Dull were our slumbers, and our nights too long-- From morn to eve along the decks we lay Scorch'd into fevers by the solar ray; No friendly awning cast a welcome shade, Once was it promis'd, and was never made; No favours could these sons of death bestow, 'Twas endless cursing, and continual woe: Immortal hatred doth their b.r.e.a.s.t.s engage, And this lost empire swells their souls with rage.

Two hulks on Hudson's stormy bosom lie, Two, farther south, affront the pitying eye-- There, the black _Scorpion_ at her mooring rides, There, _Strombolo_ swings, yielding to the tides; Here, bulky _Jersey_ fills a larger s.p.a.ce, And _Hunter_, to all hospitals disgrace-- Thou, _Scorpion_, fatal to thy crowded throng, Dire theme of horror and Plutonian song, Requir'st my lay--thy sultry decks I know, And all the torments that exist below!

The briny wave that Hudson's bosom fills Drain'd through her bottom in a thousand rills, Rotten and old, replete with sighs and groans, Scarce on the waters she sustain'd her bones; Here, doom'd to toil, or founder in the tide, At the moist pumps incessantly we ply'd,[28]

Here, doom'd to starve, like famish'd dogs we tore The scant allowance, that our tyrants bore.

Remembrance shudders at this scene of fears-- Still in my view some English brute appears, Some base-born Hessian slave walks threat'ning by, Some servile Scot with murder in his eye Still haunts my sight, as vainly they bemoan Rebellions manag'd so unlike their own!

O may I never feel the poignant pain To live subjected to such fiends again, Stewards and Mates that hostile Britain bore, Cut from the gallows on their native sh.o.r.e;[29]

Their ghastly looks and vengeance-beaming eyes Still to my view in dismal colours rise-- O may I ne'er review these dire abodes, These piles for slaughter, floating on the floods,-- And you, that o'er the troubled ocean go, Strike not your standards to this miscreant foe, Better the greedy wave should swallow all, Better to meet the death-conducted ball, Better to sleep on ocean's deepest bed, At once destroy'd and number'd with the dead, Than thus to perish in the face of day Where twice ten thousand deaths one death delay.

When to the ocean dives the western sun, And the scorch'd Tories fire their evening gun, "Down, rebels, down!" the angry Scotchmen cry, "d.a.m.n'd dogs, descend, or by our broad swords die!"

Hail, dark abode! what can with thee compare-- Heat, sickness, famine, death, and stagnant air-- Pandora's box, from whence all mischief flew, Here real found, torments mankind anew!-- Swift from the guarded decks we rush'd along, And vainly sought repose, so vast our throng: Three hundred wretches here, denied all light, In crowded mansions pa.s.s the infernal night, Some for a bed their tatter'd vestments join, And some on chests, and some on floors recline;[30]

Shut from the blessings of the evening air, Pensive we lay with mingled corpses there, Meagre and wan, and scorch'd with heat below, We loom'd like ghosts, ere death had made us so-- How could we else, where heat and hunger join'd Thus to debase the body and the mind, Where cruel thirst the parching throat invades, Dries up the man, and fits him for the shades.

No waters laded from the bubbling spring To these dire s.h.i.+ps the British monsters bring-- By planks and ponderous beams completely wall'd In vain for water, and in vain, I call'd-- No drop was granted to the midnight prayer, To Dives in these regions of despair!-- The loathsome cask a deadly dose contains, Its poison circling through the languid veins; "Here, generous Britain, generous, as you say, "To my parch'd tongue one cooling drop convey, "h.e.l.l has no mischief like a thirsty throat, "Nor one tormentor like your David Sproat."[A]

Dull flew the hours, till, from the East display'd, Sweet morn dispells the horrors of the shade; On every side dire objects meet the sight, And pallid forms, and murders of the night, The dead were past their pain, the living groan, Nor dare to hope another morn their own; But what to them is morn's delightful ray, Sad and distressful as the close of day, O'er distant streams appears the dewy green, And leafy trees on mountain tops are seen, But they no groves nor gra.s.sy mountains tread, Mark'd for a longer journey to the dead.

Black as the clouds that shade St. Kilda's sh.o.r.e, Wild as the winds that round her mountains roar, At every post some surly vagrant stands, Pick'd from the British or the Irish bands, Some slave from Hesse, some hangman's son at least Sold and transported, like his brother beast-- Some miscreant Tory, puff'd with upstart pride, Led on by h.e.l.l to take the royal side; Dispensing death triumphantly they stand, Their musquets ready to obey command; Wounds are their sport, as ruin is their aim; On their dark souls compa.s.sion has no claim, And discord only can their spirits please: Such were our tyrants here, and such were these.