The Poems of Philip Freneau Volume II Part 37

Which to your Honours may impart A thousand new invented schemes, The works of wit, and toils of art, News, commerce, politics, and dreams:

Though in a sheet, at random cast, Our motley knowledge we dispose, From such a ma.s.s, in ages past, Have less substantial fabrics rose;

The Sybil wise, as Virgil says, Her writings to the leaves consign'd, Which soon were borne a thousand ways, Derang'd and scatter'd by the wind.

Not such neglect in me is seen-- Soon as my leaves have left the press I haste to bring them, neat and clean, At all times in a New Year's dress.

Though winds their ancient spite retain, And strive to tear them from my hold, I bear them safe through wind and rain, Despising heat, despising cold.

While thus employ'd, from week to week, You surely will not think it hard If, with the rest, I come to seek Some humble token of regard.

Nor will you deem my conduct strange If what I long have thought be true-- That life itself is constant change, And death, the want of something new.

[273] Text from the 1786 edition. The poem appears in the 1795 edition under the t.i.tle "A News-Carrier's Pet.i.tion."

THE HAPPY PROSPECT[274]

Though clad in winter's gloomy dress all Nature's works appear, Yet other prospects rise to bless the new returning year: The active sail again is seen to greet our western sh.o.r.e, Gay plenty smiles with brow serene, and wars distract no more.

No more the vales, no more the plains an iron harvest yield; Peace guards our doors, impells our swains to till the grateful field: From distant climes, no longer foes (their years of misery past) Nations arrive, to find repose in these domains at last.

And, if a more delightful scene attracts the mortal eye, Where clouds nor darkness intervene, behold, aspiring high, On Freedom's soil those Fabrics plann'd, on virtue's basis laid, That make secure our native land, and prove our toils repaid.

Ambitious aims and pride severe, would you at distance keep, What wanderer would not tarry here, here charm his cares to sleep!

O, still may health her balmy wings o'er these fair fields expand, While commerce from all climates brings the products of each land.

Through toiling care and lengthen'd views, that share alike our span, Gay, smiling hope her heaven pursues, the eternal friend of man: The darkness of the days to come she brightens with her ray, And smiles o'er Nature's gaping tomb, when sickening to decay!

[274] This is Freneau's hymn of thanksgiving at the close of the war.

Text from the 1795 edition, where, as far as I can discover, it was first published.

THE DYING INDIAN[275]

TOMO-CHEQUI

"On yonder lake I spread the sail no more!

Vigour, and youth, and active days are past-- Relentless demons urge me to that sh.o.r.e On whose black forests all the dead are cast:-- Ye solemn train, prepare the funeral song, For I must go to shades below, Where all is strange and all is new; Companion to the airy throng!-- What solitary streams, In dull and dreary dreams, All melancholy, must I rove along!

To what strange lands must Chequi take his way!

Groves of the dead departed mortals trace: No deer along those gloomy forests stray, No huntsmen there take pleasure in the chace, But all are empty unsubstantial shades, That ramble through those visionary glades; No spongy fruits from verdant trees depend, But sickly orchards there Do fruits as sickly bear, And apples a consumptive visage shew, And withered hangs the hurtle-berry blue.

Ah me! what mischiefs on the dead attend!

Wandering a stranger to the sh.o.r.es below, Where shall I brook or real fountain find?

Lazy and sad deluding waters flow-- Such is the picture in my boding mind!

Fine tales, indeed, they tell Of shades and purling rills, Where our dead fathers dwell Beyond the western hills, But when did ghost return his state to shew; Or who can promise half the tale is true?

I too must be a fleeting ghost!--no more-- None, none but shadows to those mansions go; I leave my woods, I leave the Huron sh.o.r.e, For emptier groves below!

Ye charming solitudes, Ye tall ascending woods, Ye gla.s.sy lakes and prattling streams, Whose aspect still was sweet, Whether the sun did greet, Or the pale moon embraced you with her beams-- Adieu to all!

To all, that charmed me where I strayed, The winding stream, the dark sequestered shade; Adieu all triumphs here!

Adieu the mountain's lofty swell, Adieu, thou little verdant hill, And seas, and stars, and skies--farewell, For some remoter sphere!

Perplexed with doubts, and tortured with despair, Why so dejected at this hopeless sleep?

Nature at last these ruins may repair, When fate's long dream is o'er, and she forgets to weep Some real world once more may be a.s.signed, Some new born mansion for the immortal mind!

Farewell, sweet lake; farewell surrounding woods, To other groves, through midnight glooms, I stray, Beyond the mountains, and beyond the floods, Beyond the Huron bay!

Prepare the hollow tomb, and place me low, My trusty bow and arrows by my side, The cheerful bottle and the venison store; For long the journey is that I must go, Without a partner, and without a guide."

He spoke, and bid the attending mourners weep, Then closed his eyes, and sunk to endless sleep!

[275] Text from the edition of 1809. First published in the _Freeman's Journal_, March 17, 1784. It was inserted without change into the edition of 1786, where it bore the t.i.tle: "The Dying Indian, or Last Words of Shalum. _March, 1784._ Debemur morti nos, nostraque." The two later editions were unchanged save in t.i.tle.

LINES[276]

Intended for Mr. Peale's Exhibition

May 10, 1784

1

Toward the skies What columns rise In Roman style, profusely great!

What lamps ascend, What arches bend, And swell with more than Roman state!

2

High o'er the central arch display'd Old Ja.n.u.s shuts his temple door, And shackles war in darkest shade; Saturnian times in view once more.

3

Pride of the human race, behold In Gallia's king the virtues glow, Whose conduct prov'd, whose goodness told, That kings can feel for human woe.

Thrice happy France in Louis blest, Thy genius droops her head no more; In the calm virtues of the mind Equal to him no t.i.tus s.h.i.+n'd-- No Trajan--whom mankind adore.

4

Another scene too soon displays!

Griefs have their share, and claim their part, They monuments to ruin raise, And shed keen anguish o'er the heart: Those heroes that in battle fell Demand a sympathetic tear, Who fought, our tyrants to repell-- Memory preserves their laurels here.