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

GENERAL GAGE'S CONFESSION¹¹⁶

Being the Substance of His Excellency's Last Conference with his

Ghostly Father, Father Francis

 
Compassion! – 'tis a stranger to my heart,
Or if it comes – unwelcome guest depart, —
Boston, farewell, thy final doom is pass'd,
North hears my prayers, and I'm recall'd at last;¹¹⁷
Sailor on high thy canvas wings display,
Howl, ye west winds, and hurry me away;
Rise, boisterous clouds, and bellowing from on high,
Whisk me along, ye tyrants of the sky —
Quick! let me leave these friendless shores that shed
Ten thousand curses on my hated head. —
But why so swift, why ask I gales so strong,
Since conscience, cruel conscience, goes along?
Must conscience rack my bosom o'er the deep?
I live in hell while she forbears to sleep;
Come, Father Francis, be my heart display'd,
My burden'd conscience asks thy pious aid;
Come, if confession can discharge my sin,
I will confess till hell itself shall grin,
And own the world has found in me again
A second Nero; nay, another Cain.
 

Friar

 
Why swells thy breast with such distressing woe?
Your honour surely has the sense to know
Your sins are venial – trust me when I say
Your deepest sins may all be purged away. —
But if misfortunes rouse this nightly grief,
Sure Friar Francis can afford relief:
I thought e're this that leaders of renown
Would scorn to bow to giddy fortune's frown;
See yon bright star (the dewy eve begun)
Walks his gay round and sparkles in the sun;
Faints not, encircled by the ambient blaze,
Tho' pestering clouds may sometimes blunt his rays;
But come, confession makes the conscience light,
Confess, my son, and be absolv'd this night.
 

Gage

 
First of the first, I tell it in your ear
(For tho' we whisper, heaven, you know, can hear)
This faultless country ne'er deserv'd my hate;
Just are its pleas; unmerited its fate.
When North ordained me to this thankless place,
My conscience rose and star'd me in the face,
And spite of all I did to quench its flame,
Convinc'd me I was wrong before I came. —
But what, alas, can mortal heroes do,
They are but men, as sacred writings shew, —
Tho' I refus'd, they urged me yet the more,
Nay, even the king descended to implore,
And often with him in his closet pent,
Was plagu'd to death to rule this armament;
Who could a monarch's favourite wish deny?
I yielded just for peace – ay, faith did I —
If this be sin, O tell me, reverend sage,
What will, alas, become of guilty Gage?
 

Friar

 
If this be sin – 'tis sin, I make no doubt,
But trust me, honour'd sir, I'll help you out,
Even tho' your arms had rag'd from town to town,
And mow'd like flags these rebel nations down,
And joyful bell return'd the murdering din,
And you yourself the master butcher been, —
All should be well – from sins like this, I ween,
A dozen masses shall discharge you clean;
Small pains in purgatory you'll endure,
And hell, you know, is only for the poor,
Pay well the priest and fear no station there,
For heaven must yield to vehemence of prayer.
 

Gage

 
Heaven grant that this may be my smallest sin;
Alas, good friar, I'm yet deeper in —
Come round my bed, with friendly groans condole,
To gratify my paunch, I've wrong'd my soul;
Arms I may wield and murder by command,
Spread devastation thro' a guiltless land,
Whole ranks to hell with howling cannon sweep —
But what had I to do with stealing sheep?¹¹⁸
I've read my orders, conn'd them o'er with care,
But not a word of stealing sheep is there;
Come, holy friar, can you make a shift
To help a sinner at so dead a lift?
Or must I onward to perdition go,
With theft and murder to complete my woe?
 

Friar

 
Murder – nay, hold! – your honour is too sad,
Things are not yet, I hope, become so bad,
Murder, indeed – you've stole, and that I know,
But, sir, believe me, you've not struck a blow;
Some few Americans have bled, 'tis true,
But 'twas the soldiers killed them, and not you.
 

Gage

 
Well said, but will this subtile reasoning stand?
Did not the soldiers murder by command,
By my command? – Friar, they did, I swear,
And I must answer for their deeds, I fear.
 

Friar

 
Let each man answer for his proper deed,
From sins of murder I pronounce you freed,
And this same reasoning will your honour keep
From imputations of purloining sheep:
Wallace for this to Rome shall post away,
And for this crying sin severely pay,
And tho' his zeal may think his penance slight,
Hair cloth and logs shall be his bed at night,
Coarse fare by day – till his repeated groans
Convince the world he for this sin atones.
 

Gage

 
Alas, poor Wallace, how I pity thee! —
But let him go – 'tis better him than me;
Yes, let him harbour in some convent there,
And fleas monastic bite him till he swear;
But, friar, have you patience for the rest?
Half my transgressions are not yet confest.
 

Friar

 
Not half! – you are a harmless man, I'm told —
Pray, cut them short – the supper will be cold.
 

Gage

 
Some devil, regardless of exalted station,
In evil hour assail'd me with temptation,
To issue forth a damned proclamation,
What prince, what king, from Belzebub is free,
He tempted Judas, and has tempted me!
This, this, O friar, was a deadly flaw,
This for the civil founded martial law,¹¹⁹
This crime will Gage to Lucifer consign,
And purgatory must for this be mine.
Next – and for this I breathe my deepest sigh,
Ah cruel, flinty, hard, remorseless I! —
How could I crowd my dungeons dark and low
With wounded captives of our injur'd foe?
How could my heart, more hard than hardened steel,
Laugh at the pangs that mangled captives feel?
Why sneer'd I at my fellow men distrest,
Why banished pity from this iron breast!
O friar, could heaven approve my acting so,
Heaven still to mercy swift, to vengeance slow? —
O no – you say, then cease your soothing chat,
Cowards are cruel, I can instance that. —
But hold! why did I, when the fact was done,
Deny it all to gallant Washington?
Why did I stuff the epistolary page
With vile invectives only worthy Gage?¹²⁰
Come, friar, help – shall I recant and say
I writ my letter on a drunken day?
How will it sound, if men should chance to tell
A drunken hero can compose so well?
 

Friar

 
Your fears are groundless, give me all the blame,
I writ the letter, you but sign'd your name,
Nor let the proclamation cloud your mind,
'Twas I compos'd it and you only sign'd. —
I, Friar Francis – papist tho' I be,
You private papists can't but value me;
Your sins in Lethe shall be swallowed up,
I'll clear you, if you please, before we sup.
 

Gage

 
Nay, clear me not – tho' I should cross the brine,
And pay my vows in distant Palestine,
Or land in Spain, a stranger poor and bare,
And rove on foot a wretched pilgrim there,
And let my eyes in streams perpetual flow,
Where great Messiah dy'd so long ago,
And wash his sacred footsteps with my tears,
And pay for masses fifty thousand years,
All would not do – my monarch I've obey'd,
And now go home, perhaps to lose my head; —
Pride sent me here, pride blasted in the bud,
Which, if it can, will build its throne in blood,
With slaughter'd millions glut its tearless eyes,
And make all nature fall that it may rise; —
Come, let's embark, your holy whining cease,
Come, let's away, I'll hang myself for peace:
So Pontius Pilate for his murder'd Lord
In his own bosom sheath'd the deadly sword —
Tho' he confess'd and wash'd his hands beside,
His heart condemn'd him and the monster dy'd.
 

THE DISTREST SHEPHERDESS¹²¹

or, Mariana's Complaint for the Death of Damon

Written 1775

 
What madness compell'd my dear shepherd to go
To the siege of Quebec, and distract me with woe!
My heart is so full, it would kill me to tell
How he died on the banks of the river Sorel.
 
 
O river Sorel! Thou didst hear him complain,
When dying he languish'd, and called me in vain!
When, pierc'd by the Briton he went to repel,
He sunk on the shores of the river Sorel.
 
 
O cruel misfortune, my hopes to destroy:
He has left me alone with my Colin, his boy;
With sorrow I see him, with tears my eyes swell;
Shall we go, my sweet babe, to the river Sorel?
 
 
But why should I wander, and give him such pain?
My Damon will ne'er see his Colin again:
To wander so far where the wild Indians dwell,
We should faint ere we came to the river Sorel.
 
 
But even to see the pale corpse of my dear
Would give me such rapture, such pleasure sincere!
I'll go, my dear boy, and my grief I will tell
To the willows that grow by the river Sorel.
 
 
How shall I distinguish my shepherd's dear grave
Amidst the long forest that darkens the wave: —
Perhaps they could give him no tomb when he fell;
Perhaps he is sunk in the river Sorel.
 
 
He was a dear fellow! – O, had he remain'd!
For he was uneasy whene'er I complain'd;
He call'd me his charmer, and call'd me his belle,
What a folly to die on the banks of Sorel!
 
 
Then let me remain in my lonely retreat;
My shepherd departed I never shall meet —
Here's Billy O'Bluster – I love him as well,
And Damon may stay at the river Sorel.
 

MARS AND HYMEN¹²²

Occasioned by the separation of a young widow from a young military lover, of the troops sent to attack Fort Chamblee, in Canada; in which expedition he lost his life [1775]

 

Persons of the Poem– Lucinda, Damon, Thyrsis

Damon

 
Why do we talk of shaded bowers,
When frosts, my fair one, chill the plain,
And nights are cold, and long the hours
That damp the ardour of the swain,
Who, parting from his rural fire,
All pleasure doth forego —
And here and there,
And everywhere,
Pursues the invading foe.
 
 
Yes, we must rest on frosts and snows!
No season shuts up our campaign!
Hard as the rocks, we dare oppose
The autumnal, or the wintery reign.
Alike to us, the winds that blow
In summer's season, gay,
Or those that rave
On Hudson's wave,
And drift his ice away.
 
 
Winter and war may change the scene!
The ball may pierce, the frost may chill;
And dire misfortunes intervene,
But freedom must be powerful still,
To drive these Britons from our shore,
Who come with sail, who come with oar,
So cruel and unkind,
With servile chain, who strive in vain,
Our freeborn souls to bind.                         [Exit]
 

Lucinda (two months after)

 
They scold me, and tell me I must not complain,
To part a few weeks with my favourite swain!
He goes to the battle! – and leaves me to mourn —
And tell me – and tell me – and will he return?¹²³
When he left me, he kiss'd me – and said, My sweet dear,
In less than a month I again will be here;
But still I can hardly my sorrows adjourn —
You may call me a witch – if ever I return.¹²⁴
I said, My dear soldier, I beg you would stay;
But he, with his farmers,¹²⁵ went strutting away —
With anguish and sorrow my bosom did burn,
And I wept – for I thought he would never return.¹²⁶
 

Thyrsis

 
Fairest of the female train,
You must seek another swain,
Damon will not come again!
All his toils are over!
As you prized him, to excess,
Your loss is great, I will confess,
But, lady, yield not to distress —
I will be your lover.
 

Lucinda

 
Not all the swains the land can shew,
(If Damon is not living now)¹²⁷
Can from my bosom drive my woe,
Or bid a second passion glow; —
For Damon has possession;
Not all the gifts that wealth can bring,
Nor all the airs that you can sing,
Nor all the music of the string
Can banish his impression.
 

Thyrsis

 
Wedlock and death too often prove
Pernicious to the fires of Love:
With equal strength they both combine
Hearts best united¹²⁸ to disjoin:
Hence ardent loves too soon remit;
Thus die the fires that Cupid lit.
Female tears and April snow
Sudden come and sudden go.
Since his head is levelled low,
Cease remembrance of your woe.
Can it be in reason found
To be crazy for Love's wound?¹²⁹
Must you live in sorrows drowned
For a lover under ground?
 

Lucinda

 
What a picture have I seen!
What can all these visions mean!
Wintry groves and vacant halls,
Coffins hid by sable palls,
Monuments and funerals!
Forms terrific to the sight,
Ghastly phantoms clad in white;
Streams that ever seemed to freeze,
Shaded o'er by willow trees,¹³⁰
Ever drooping – hardly green —
What a vision have I seen!
One I saw of angel kind,
From the dregs of life refined;
On her visage such a smile,¹³¹
And she talk'd in such a style!
All was heaven upon her brow; —
Yes, I think I see her now!
All in beams of light arrayed;
And these cheering words she said:
Fair Lucinda, come to me;
What has grief to do with thee?
O forsake your wretched shore,
Crimsoned with its children's gore!¹³²
Could you but a moment stray
In the meadows where I play,
You would die to come away.
Come away, and speed your wing —¹³³
Here we love, and here we sing!
 

Thyrsis

 
You will not yet forget your glooms,
The heavy heart, the downcast eye,
The cheek that scarce a smile assumes,
The never-ending sigh!¹³⁴
 

Lucinda

 
Had you the secret cause to grieve —
That in this breast doth lie,
Instead of wishing to relieve
You would be just as I.
 

Thyrsis

 
What secret cause have you to grieve? —
A lover gone astray? —¹³⁵
If one was able to deceive,
Perhaps another may.
 

Lucinda

 
My lover has not me deceived,
An act he would disdain;
Oh! he is gone – and I am grieved —
He'll never come again!
He'll never come again!
 

Thyrsis

 
The turtle on yon' withered bough
Who lately moaned her murdered mate,
Has found another partner now, —
Such changes all await.
Again her drooping plume is dress'd,
Again she wishes to be bless'd,
And takes a husband to her nest.
If nature has decreed it so
With some above, and all below,
Let us, Lucinda, banish woe,¹³⁶
Nor be perplext with sorrow:
If I should leave your arms this night,
And die before the morning light,
I would advise you – and you might
Wed again to-morrow.
 

Lucinda

 
The turtle on yon' withered tree! —
That turtle never felt like me!
Her grief is but a moment's date,
Another day, another mate:
And true it is, the feathered race
Hold many a partner no disgrace.
How would the world my fault display,
What would censorious Sally¹³⁷ say?
Would say, while grinning malice sneers, —¹³⁸
She made a conquest by her tears!
 

Thyrsis

 
My Polly! – once the pride of all,
That shepherd lads their charmers call,
Too early parted with her bloom,
And sleeps in yonder sylvan tomb:
Her death has set me free —
Fair as the day, and sweet as May,
But what is that to me!
Since all must bow to fate's arrest,¹³⁹
No love deceased shall rack my breast —
Come, then, Lucinda, and be blest.
 

Lucinda

 
My Damon! Oh, can I forget
The hour you left these moistened eyes,
O'er northern lakes to wander far
To colder climes and dreary skies!
There, vengeful, in their wastes of snow
The Britons guard the frozen shore,
And Damon there is perished now,
The swain that shall return no more!
 

Thyrsis

 
Weep, weep no more, my Jersey lass,¹⁴⁰
The pang is past that fixed his doom —
They, too, shall to destruction pass,
Perhaps – and hardly find a tomb.
Refrain your tears – enough are shed —
They, too, shall have their share of woe:
Fled is their fame, their honours fled;
And Washington shall lay them low.
 

Lucinda

 
If you had but yon' sergeant's size,
His mien and looks, so debonaire,
You might seem lovely in my eyes,
Nor should you quite despair.¹⁴¹
There's something in your looks, I find,
Recalling Damon to my mind —
He is dead, and I must be resigned!
His lively step, his sun-burnt face,
His nervous arm in you I trace —
Indeed, – I think you no disgrace.¹⁴²
 

Thyrsis

 
On this dismal, cloudy day,¹⁴³
In these fighting times, I say,
Will you Yea, or will you Nay?
 

Lucinda

 
Oh! I will not tell you Nay,
You have such a coaxing way!
 

Thyrsis

 
Call the music! – half is done
That my heart could count upon —
From the grave I seize a prize!
Here she is, and where he lies,
She or I but little care!
O, what animals we are!
For you! – I would forego all ease,¹⁴⁴
And traverse sands or travel seas.
Of all they sent us from above,
Nothing, nothing is like love!
Happiest passion of the mind,
Sent from heaven to bless mankind,
Though at variance with your charms,
Fate's eternal mandate stands;
Hymen, come! – unite our hands,
And give Lucinda to my arms!
 

MAC SWIGGEN¹⁴⁵

A Satire

Written 1775

 
Long have I sat on this disast'rous shore,
And, sighing, sought to gain a passage o'er
To Europe's towns, where, as our travellers say,
Poets may flourish, or, perhaps they may;
But such abuse has from your coarse pen fell
I think I may defer my voyage as well;
Why should I far in search of honour roam,
And dunces leave to triumph here at home?
Great Jove in wrath a spark of genius gave.
And bade me drink the mad Pierian wave,
Hence came these rhimes, with truth ascrib'd to me,
That swell thy little soul to jealousy:¹⁴⁶
If thus, tormented at these flighty lays,
You strive to blast what ne'er was meant for praise,
How will you bear the more exalted rhime,
By labour polish'd, and matur'd by time?
Devoted madman! what inspir'd thy rage,
Who bade thy foolish muse with me engage?
Against a wind-mill would'st thou try thy might,
Against a giant¹⁴⁷ would a pigmy fight?
What could thy slanderous pen with malice arm
To injure him, who never did thee harm?¹⁴⁸
Have I from thee been urgent to attain
The mean ideas of thy barren brain?
Have I been seen in borrowed clothes to shine,
And, when detected, swear by Jove they're mine?
O miscreant, hostile to thine own repose,
From thy own envy thy destruction flows!
Bless'd be our western world – its scenes conspire
To raise a poet's fancy and his fire,
Lo, blue-topt mountains to the skies ascend!
Lo, shady forests to the breezes bend!
See mighty streams meandering to the main!
See lambs and lambkins sport on every plain!
The spotted herds in flowery meadows see!
But what, ungenerous wretch, are these to thee? —
You find no charms in all that nature yields,
Then leave to me the grottoes and the fields:
I interfere not with your vast design —
Pursue your studies, and I'll follow mine,
Pursue, well pleas'd, your theologic schemes,
Attend professors, and correct your themes,
Still some dull nonsense, low-bred wit invent,
Or prove from scripture what it never meant,
Or far through law, that land of scoundrels, stray,
And truth disguise through all your mazy way;
Wealth you may gain, your clients you may squeeze,
And by long cheating, learn to live at ease;
If but in Wood or Littleton well read,
The devil shall help you to your daily bread.
O waft me far, ye muses of the west —
Give me your green bowers and soft seats of rest —
Thrice happy in those dear retreats to find
A safe retirement from all human kind.
Though dire misfortunes every step attend,
The muse, still social, still remains a friend —
In solitude her converse gives delight,
With gay poetic dreams she cheers the night,
She aids me, shields me, bears me on her wings,
In spite of growling whelps, to high, exalted things,
Beyond the miscreants that my peace molest,
Miscreants, with dullness and with rage opprest.
Hail, great Mac Swiggen!¹⁴⁹ foe to honest fame,¹⁵⁰
Patron of dunces, and thyself the same,
You dream of conquest – tell me, how, or whence?
Act like a man and combat me with sense —
This evil have I known, and known but once,¹⁵¹
Thus to be gall'd and slander'd by a dunce,
Saw rage and weakness join their dastard plan
To crush the shadow, not attack the man.
What swarms of vermin from the sultry south
Like frogs surround thy pestilential mouth —
Clad in the garb of sacred sanctity,
What madness prompts thee to invent a lie?
Thou base defender of a wretched crew,
Thy tongue let loose on those you never knew,
The human spirit with the brutal join'd,
The imps of Orcus in thy breast combin'd,
The genius barren, and the wicked heart,
Prepar'd to take each trifling scoundrel's part,
The turn'd up nose, the monkey's foolish face,
The scorn of reason, and your sire's disgrace —
Assist me, gods, to drive this dog of rhime
Back to the torments of his native clime,
Where dullness mingles with her native earth,¹⁵²
And rhimes, not worth the pang that gave them birth!
Where did he learn to write or talk with men? —
A senseless blockhead, with a scribbling pen —
In vile acrostics thou may'st please the fair,¹⁵³
Not less than with thy looks and powder'd hair,
But strive no more with rhime to daunt thy foes,
Or, by the flame that in my bosom glows,
The muse on thee shall her worst fury spend,
And hemp, or water, thy vile being end.
Aspers'd like me, who would not grieve and rage!
Who would not burn, Mac Swiggen to engage?
Him and his friends, a mean, designing race,
I, singly I, must combat face to face —
Alone I stand to meet the foul-mouth'd train,¹⁵⁴
Assisted by no poets of the plain,
Whose timerous Muses cannot swell their theme
Beyond a meadow or a purling stream. —
Were not my breast impervious to despair,
And did not Clio reign unrivall'd there,
I must expire beneath the ungenerous host,
And dullness triumph o'er a poet lost.
Rage gives me wings, and fearless prompts me on
To conquer brutes the world should blush to own;
No peace, no quarter to such imps I lend,
Death and perdition on each line I send;
Bring all the wittlings that your host supplies,
A cloud of nonsense and a storm of lies —
Your kitchen wit – Mac Swiggen's loud applause,
That wretched rhymer with his lanthorn jaws —
His deep-set eyes forever on the wink,
His soul extracted from the public sink —
All such as he, to my confusion call —
And tho' ten myriads – I despise them all.
Come on, Mac Swiggen, come – your muse is willing,
Your prose is merry, but your verse is killing —
Come on, attack me with that whining prose,
Your beard is red, and swine-like is your nose,
Like burning brush your bristly head of hair,
The ugliest image of a Greenland bear —
Come on – attack me with your choicest rhimes,
Sound void of sense betrays the unmeaning chimes —
Come, league your forces; all your wit combine,
Your wit not equal to the bold design —
The heaviest arms the Muse can give, I wield,
To stretch Mac Swiggen floundering on the field,
'Swiggen, who, aided by some spurious Muse,
But bellows nonsense, and but writes abuse,
'Swiggen, immortal and unfading grown,¹⁵⁵
But by no deeds or merits of his own. —
So, when some hateful monster sees the day,
In spirits we preserve it from decay,
But for what end, it is not hard to guess —
Not for its value, but its ugliness.
Now, by the winds which shake thy rubric mop,
(That nest of witches, or that barber's shop)
Mac Swiggen, hear – Be wise in times to come,
A dunce by nature, bid thy muse be dumb,
Lest you, devoted to the infernal skies,
Descend, like Lucifer, no more to rise. —
Sick of all feuds, to Reason I appeal¹⁵⁶
From wars of paper, and from wars of steel,
Let others here their hopes and wishes end,
I to the sea with weary steps descend,
Quit the mean conquest that such swine might yield,
And leave Mac Swiggen to enjoy the field —
In distant isles some happier scene I'll choose,
And court in softer shades the unwilling Muse,
Thrice happy there, through peaceful plains to rove,
Or the cool verdure of the orange grove,
Safe from the miscreants that my peace molest,
Miscreants, with dullness and with rage opprest.