Buch lesen: «The Poems of Philip Freneau, Poet of the American Revolution. Volume 1 (of 3)», Seite 9

The Merchant's Return

 
Returning far o'er many a hill and stone
And much in dread his earthen ware would break,
Thoughtful he rode, and uttering many a groan
Lest at some worm-hole vent his cask should leak —
His cask, that held the joys of rural squire
Which even, 'twas said, the parson did admire,
And valued more than all the dusty pages
That Calvin penn'd, and fifty other sages —
Once high in fame – beprais'd in verse and prose,
But now unthumb'd, enjoy a sweet repose.
At dusk of eve he reach'd his old abode,
Around him quick his anxious townsmen came,
One ask'd what luck had happ'd him on the road,
And one ungear'd the mud-bespatter'd team.
While on his cask each glanced a loving eye,
Patient, to all he gave a brisk reply —
Told all that had befallen him on his way,
What wonders in the town detain'd his stay —
"Houses as high as yonder white-oak tree
"And boats of monstrous size that go to sea,
"Streets throng'd with busy folk, like swarming hive;
"The Lord knows how they all contrive to live —
"No ploughs I saw, no hoes, no care, no charge,
"In fact, they all are gentlemen at large,
"And goods so thick on every window lie,
"They all seem born to sell – and none to buy."
 

The Catastrophe, or theBroken Merchant

 
Alack-a-day! on life's uncertain road
How many plagues, what evils must befal; —
Jove has on none unmingled bliss bestow'd,
But disappointment is the lot of all:
Thieves rob our stores, in spite of locks and keys,
Cats steal our cream, and rats infest our cheese,
The gayest coat a grease-spot may assail,
Or Susan pin a dish-clout to its tail, —
Our village-merchant (trust me) had his share
Of vile mis-haps – for now, the goods unpackt,
Discover'd, what might make a deacon swear,
Jugs, cream-pots, pipes, and grog-bowls sadly crackt —
A general groan throughout the crowd was heard;
Most pitied him, and some his ruin fear'd;
Poor wight! 'twas sad to see him fret and chafe,
While each enquir'd, "Sir, is the rum-cask safe?"
Alas! even that some mischief had endured; —
One rascal hoop had started near the chine! —
Then curiously the bung-hole they explored,
With stem of pipe, the leakage to define —
Five gallons must be charged to loss and gain! —
" – Five gallons! (cry'd the merchant, writh'd with pain)
"Now may the cooper never see full flask,
"But still be driving at an empty cask —
"Five gallons might have mellowed down the 'squire
"And made the captain strut a full inch higher;
"Five gallons might have prompted many a song,
"And made a frolic more than five days long:
"Five gallons now are lost, and – sad to think,
"That when they leak'd – no soul was there to drink!"
Now, slightly treated with a proof-glass dram,
Each neighbour took his leave, and went to bed,
All but our merchant: he, with grief o'ercome,
Revolv'd strange notions in his scheming head —
"For losses such as these, (thought he) 'tis meant,
"That goods are sold at twenty-five per cent:
"No doubt these trading men know what is just,
"'Tis twenty-five times what they cost at first!"
So rigging off his shelves by light of candle,
The dismal smoke-house walls began to shine:
Here, stood his tea-pots – some without a handle —
A broken jar – and there his keg of wine;
Pipes, many a dozen, ordered in a row;
Jugs, mugs, and grog-bowls – less for sale than show:
The leaky cask, replenish'd from the well,
Roll'd to its birth – but we no tales will tell. —
Catching the eye in elegant display,
All was arranged and snug, by break of day:
The blue dram-bottle, on the counter plac'd,
Stood, all prepared for him that buys to taste; —
Sure bait! by which the man of cash is taken,
As rats are caught by cheese or scraps of bacon.
Now from all parts the rural people ran,
With ready cash, to buy what might be bought:
One went to choose a pot, and one a pan,
And they that had no pence their produce brought,
A hog, a calf, safe halter'd by the neck;
Potatoes (Ireland's glory) many a peck;
Bacon and cheese, of real value more
Than India's gems, or all Potosi's ore.
Some questions ask'd, the folks began to stare —
No soul would purchase, pipe, or pot, or pan:
Each shook his head – hung back – "Your goods so dear!
"In fact (said they) the devil's in the man!
"Rum ne'er shall meet my lips (cry'd honest Sam)
"In shape of toddy, punch, grog, sling, or dram;
"No cash of mine you'll get (said pouting Kate)
"While gauze is valued at so dear a rate."
Thus things dragg'd on for many a tedious day;
No custom came; and nought but discontent
Gloom'd through the shop. – "Well, let them have their way,
(The merchant said) I'll sell at cent per cent,
"By which, 'tis plain, I scarce myself can save,
"For cent per cent is just the price I gave."
"Now! (cry'd the squire who still had kept his pence)
"Now, Sir, you reason like a man of sense!
"Custom will now from every quarter come;
"In joyous streams shall flow the inspiring rum,
"'Till every soul in pleasing dreams be sunk,
"And even our Socrates himself – is drunk!"
Soon were the shelves disburthen'd of their load;
In three short hours the kegs of wine ran dry —
Swift from its tap even dull molasses flow'd;
Each saw the rum cask wasting, with a sigh —
The farce concluded, as it was foreseen —
With empty shelves – long trust – and law suits keen —
The woods resounding with a curse on trade, —
An empty purse – sour looks – and hanging head. —
 

The Puncheon's Eulogy

 
"Here lies a worthy corpse (Sangrado said)
"Its debt to Commerce now, no doubt, is paid. —
"Well – 'twas a vile disease that kill'd it, sure,
"A quick consumption, that no art could cure!
"Thus shall we all, when life's vain dream is out,
"Be lodg'd in corners dark, or kick'd about!
"Time is the tapster of our race below,
"That turns the key, and bids the juices flow:
"Quitting my books, henceforth be mine the task
"To moralize upon this empty cask —
"Thank heaven we've had the taste – so far 'twas well;
"And still, thro' mercy, may enjoy the smell!"
 

Epilogue³¹

 
Well! – strange it is, that men will still apply
Things to themselves, that authors never meant:
Each country merchant asks me, "Is it I
On whom your rhyming ridicule is spent?"
Friends, hold your tongues – such myriads of your race
Adorn Columbia's fertile, favour'd climes,
A man might rove seven years from place to place
Ere he would know the subject of my rhymes. —
Perhaps in Jersey is this creature known,
Perhaps New-England claims him for her own:
And if from Fancy's world this wight I drew,
What is the imagin'd character to you?"
 

THE PYRAMIDS OF EGYPT³²

Debemur morti nos nostraque!

A Dialogue. Written in 1770

Scene.– Egypt. Persons.– Traveller, Genius, Time

Traveller

 
Where are those famed piles of human grandeur,
Those sphinxes, pyramids, and Pompey's pillar,
That bid defiance to the arm of Time —
Tell me, dear Genius: for I long to see them.
 

Genius

 
At Alexandria rises Pompey's pillar,
Whose birth is but of yesterday, compar'd
With those prodigious fabricks that you see
O'er yonder distant plain – upon whose breast
Old Nile hath never roll'd his swelling streams,
The only plain so privileg'd in Egypt.
These pyramids may well excite your wonder,
They are of most remote antiquity,
Almost co-eval with those cloud-crown'd hills
That westward from them rise – 'twas the same age
That saw old Babel's tower aspiring high,
When first the sage Egyptian architects
These ancient turrets to the heavens rais'd; —
But Babel's tower is gone, and these remain!
 

Traveller

 
Old Rome I thought unrivall'd in her years,
At least the remnants that we find of Rome,
But these, you tell me, are of older date.
 

Genius

 
Talk not of Rome! – before they lopt a bush
From the seven hills where Rome, earth's empress, stood,
These pyramids were old – their birth day is
Beyond tradition's reach, or history.
 

Traveller

 
Then let us haste toward those piles of wonder
That scorn to bend beneath this weight of years —
Lo! to my view, the aweful mansions rise
The pride of art, the sleeping place of death!
Are these the four prodigious monuments
That so astonish every generation —
Let us examine this, the first and greatest —
A secret horror chills my breast, dear Genius,
To touch these monuments that are so ancient,
The fearful property of ghosts and death! —
Yet of such mighty bulk that I presume
A race of giants were the architects. —
Since these proud fabricks to the heavens were rais'd
How many generations have decay'd,
How many monarchies to ruin pass'd!
How many empires had their rise and fall!
While these remain – and promise to remain
As long as yonder sun shall gild their summits,
Or moon or stars their wonted circles run.
 

Genius

 
The time will come
When these stupendous piles you deem immortal,
Worn out with age, shall moulder on their bases,
And down, down, low to endless ruin verging,
O'erwhelm'd by dust, be seen and known no more! —
Ages ago, in dark oblivion's lap
Had they been shrouded, but the atmosphere
In these parch'd climates, hostile to decay,
Is pregnant with no rain, that by its moisture
Might waste their bulk in such excess of time,
And prove them merely mortal.
'Twas on this plain the ancient Memphis stood,
Her walls encircled these tall pyramids —
But where is Pharoah's palace, where the domes
Of Egypt's haughty lords? – all, all are gone,
And like the phantom snows of a May morning
Left not a vestige to discover them!
 

Traveller

 
How shall I reach the vortex of this pile —
How shall I clamber up its shelving sides?
I scarce endure to glance toward the summit,
It seems among the clouds – When was't thou rais'd,
O work of more than mortal majesty —
Was this produc'd by persevering man,
Or did the gods erect this pyramid?
 

Genius

 
Nor gods, nor giants rais'd this pyramid —
It was the toil of mortals like yourself
That swell'd it to the skies —
See'st thou yon' little door? Through that they pass'd,
Who rais'd so high this aggregate of wonders!
What cannot tyrants do,
When they have subject nations at their will,
And the world's wealth to gratify ambition!
Millions of slaves beneath their labours fainted
Who here were doom'd to toil incessantly,
And years elaps'd while groaning myriads strove
To raise this mighty tomb – and but to hide
The worthless bones of an Egyptian king. —
O wretch, could not a humbler tomb have done,
Could nothing but a pyramid inter thee!
 

Traveller

 
Perhaps old Jacob's race, when here oppress'd,
Rais'd, in their years of bondage this dread pile.
 

Genius

 
Before the Jewish patriarchs saw the light,
While yet the globe was in its infancy
These were erected to the pride of man —
Four thousand years have run their tedious round
Since these smooth stones were on each other laid,
Four thousand more may run as dull a round
Ere Egypt sees her pyramids decay'd.
 

Traveller

 
But suffer me to enter, and behold
The interior wonders of this edifice.
 

Genius

 
'Tis darkness all, with hateful silence join'd —
Here drowsy bats enjoy a dull repose,
And marble coffins, vacant of their bones,
Show where the royal dead in ruin lay!
By every pyramid a temple rose
Where oft in concert those of ancient time
Sung to their goddess Isis hymns of praise;
But these are fallen! – their columns too superb
Are levell'd with the dust – nor these alone —
Where is thy vocal statue, Memnon, now,
That once, responsive to the morning beams,
Harmoniously to father Phœbus sung!
Where is the image that in past time stood
High on the summit of yon' pyramid? —
Still may you see its polish'd pedestal —
Where art thou ancient Thebes? – all bury'd low,
All vanish'd! crumbled into mother dust,
And nothing of antiquity remains
But these huge pyramids, and yonder hills.
 

Time

 
Old Babel's tower hath felt my potent arm
I ruin'd Ecbatan and Babylon,
Thy huge Colossus, Rhodes, I tumbled down,
And on these pyramids I smote my scythe;
But they resist its edge – then let them stand.
But I can boast a greater feat than this,
I long ago have shrouded those in death
Who made those structures rebels to my power —
But, O return! – These piles are not immortal!
This earth, with all its balls of hills and mountains,
Shall perish by my hand – then how can these,
These hoary headed pyramids of Egypt,
That are but dwindled warts upon her body,
That on a little, little spot of ground
Extinguish the dull radiance of the sun,
Be proof to Death and me? – Traveller return —
There's nought but God immortal – He alone
Exists secure, when Man, and Death, and Time,
(Time not immortal, but a fancied point
In the vast circle of eternity)
Are swallow'd up, and, like the pyramids,
Leave not an atom for their monument!
 

THE MONUMENT OF PHAON³³

Written 1770

Phaon, the admirer of Sappho, both of the isle of Lesbos, privately forsook this first object of his affections, and set out to visit foreign countries. Sappho, after having long mourned his absence (which is the subject of one of Ovid's finest epistles), is here supposed to fall into the company of Ismenius a traveller, who informs her that he saw the tomb of a certain Phaon in Sicily, erected to his memory by a lady of the island, and gives her the inscriptions, hinting to her that, in all probability, it belonged to the same person she bemoans. She thereupon, in a fit of rage and despair, throws herself from the famous Leucadian rock, and perishes in the gulph below.

Sappho

 
No more I sing by yonder shaded stream,
Where once intranc'd I fondly pass'd the day,
Supremely blest, when Phaon was my theme,
But wretched now, when Phaon is away!
 
 
Of all the youths that grac'd our Lesbian isle
He, only he, my heart propitious found,
So soft his language, and so sweet his smile,
Heaven was my own when Phaon clasp'd me round!
 
 
But soon, too soon, the faithless lover fled
To wander on some distant barbarous shore —
Who knows if Phaon is alive or dead,
Or wretched Sappho shall behold him more.
 

Ismenius

 
As late in fair Sicilia's groves I stray'd,
Charm'd with the beauties of the vernal scene
I sate me down amid the yew tree's shade,
Flowers blooming round, with herbage fresh and green.
 
 
Not distant far a monument arose
Among the trees and form'd of Parian stone,
And, as if there some stranger did repose,
It stood neglected, and it stood alone.
 
 
Along its sides dependent ivy crept,
The cypress bough, Plutonian green, was near,
A sculptur'd Venus on the summit wept,
A pensive Cupid dropt the parting tear.
 
 
Strains deep engrav'd on every side I read,
How Phaon died upon that foreign shore —
Sappho, I think your Phaon must be dead,
Then hear the strains that do his fate deplore:
 
 
Thou swain that lov'st the morning air,
To those embowering trees repair,
Forsake thy sleep at early dawn.
And of this landscape to grow fonder,
Still, O still persist to wander
Up and down the flowery lawn;
And as you there enraptur'd rove
From hill to hill, from grove to grove,
Pensive now and quite alone,
Cast thine eye upon this stone,
Read its melancholy moan;
And if you can refuse a tear
To the youth that slumbers here,
Whom the Lesbians held so dear,
Nature calls thee not her own.
Echo, hasten to my aid!
Tell the woods and tell the waves,
Tell the far off mountain caves
(Wrapt in solitary shade);
Tell them in high tragic numbers,
That beneath this marble tomb,
Shrouded in unceasing gloom
Phaon, youthful Phaon, slumbers,
By Sicilian swains deplor'd —
That a narrow urn restrains
Him who charm'd our pleasing plains,
Him, whom every nymph ador'd.
Tell the woods and tell the waves,
Tell the mossy mountain caves,
Tell them, if none will hear beside,
How our lovely Phaon died.
In that season when the sun
Bids his glowing charioteer
Phœbus, native of the sphere,
High the burning zenith run;
Then our much lamented swain,
O'er the sunny, scorched plain,
Hunting with a chosen train,
Slew the monsters of the waste
From those gloomy caverns chac'd
Round stupendous Etna plac'd. —
Conquer'd by the solar beam
At last he came to yonder stream;
Panting, thirsting there he lay
On this fatal summer's day,
While his locks of raven jett
Were on his temples dripping wet;
The gentle stream ran purling by
O'er the pebbles, pleasantly,
Tempting him to drink and die —
He drank indeed – but never thought
Death was in the gelid draught! —
Soon it chill'd his boiling veins,
Soon this glory of the plains
Left the nymphs and left the swains,
And has fled with all his charms
Where the Stygian monarch reigns,
Where no sun the climate warms! —
Dread Pluto then, as once before,
Pass'd Avernus' waters o'er;
Left the dark and dismal shore,
And strait enamour'd, as he gloomy stood,
Seiz'd Phaon by the waters of the wood.
Now o'er the silent plain
We for our much lov'd Phaon call again,
And Phaon! Phaon! ring the woods amain —
From beneath this myrtle tree,
Musidora, wretched maid,
How shall Phaon answer thee,
Deep in vaulted caverns laid! —
Thrice the myrtle tree hath bloom'd
Since our Phaon was entomb'd,
I, who had his heart, below,
I have rais'd this turret high,
A monument of love and woe
That Phaon's name may never die. —
With deepest grief, O muse divine,
Around his tomb thy laurels twine
And shed thy sorrow, for to morrow
Thou, perhaps, shalt cease to glow —
My hopes are crost, my lover lost,
And I must weeping o'er the mountains go!
 

Sappho

 
Ah, faithless Phaon, thus from me to rove,
And bless my rival in a foreign grove!
Could Sicily more charming forests show
Than those that in thy native Lesbos grow —
Did fairer fruits adorn the bending tree
Than those that Lesbos did present to thee!
Or didst thou find through all the changing fair
One beauty that with Sappho could compare!
So soft, so sweet, so charming and so kind,
A face so fair, such beauties of the mind —
Not Musidora can be rank'd with me
Who sings so well thy funeral song for thee! —³⁴
I'll go! – and from the high Leucadian steep
Take my last farewell in the lover's leap,
I charge thee, Phaon, by this deed of woe
To meet me in the Elysian shades below,
No rival beauty shall pretend a share,
Sappho alone shall walk with Phaon there.
She spoke, and downward from the mountain's height
Plung'd in the plashy wave to everlasting night.
 

THE POWER OF FANCY³⁵

Written 1770

 
Wakeful, vagrant, restless thing,
Ever wandering on the wing,
Who thy wondrous source can find,
Fancy, regent of the mind;
A spark from Jove's resplendent throne,
But thy nature all unknown.
This spark of bright, celestial flame,
From Jove's seraphic altar came,
And hence alone in man we trace,
Resemblance to the immortal race.
Ah! what is all this mighty whole,
These suns and stars that round us roll!
What are they all, where'er they shine,
But Fancies of the Power Divine!
What is this globe, these lands, and seas,
And heat, and cold, and flowers, and trees,
And life, and death, and beast, and man,
And time – that with the sun began —
But thoughts on reason's scale combin'd,
Ideas of the Almighty mind!
On the surface of the brain
Night after night she walks unseen,
Noble fabrics doth she raise
In the woods or on the seas,
On some high, steep, pointed rock,
Where the billows loudly knock
And the dreary tempests sweep
Clouds along the uncivil deep.
Lo! she walks upon the moon,
Listens to the chimy tune
Of the bright, harmonious spheres,
And the song of angels hears;
Sees this earth a distant star,[A]
Pendant, floating in the air;
Leads me to some lonely dome,
Where Religion loves to come,
Where the bride of Jesus dwells,
And the deep ton'd organ swells
In notes with lofty anthems join'd,
Notes that half distract the mind.
Now like lightning she descends
To the prison of the fiends,
Hears the rattling of their chains,
Feels their never ceasing pains —
But, O never may she tell
Half the frightfulness of hell.
Now she views Arcadian rocks,
Where the shepherds guard their flocks,
And, while yet her wings she spreads,
Sees chrystal streams and coral beds,
Wanders to some desert deep,
Or some dark, enchanted steep,
By the full moonlight doth shew
Forests of a dusky blue,
Where, upon some mossy bed,
Innocence reclines her head.
Swift, she stretches o'er the seas
To the far off Hebrides,
Canvas on the lofty mast
Could not travel half so fast —
Swifter than the eagle's flight
Or instantaneous rays of light!
Lo! contemplative she stands
On Norwegia's rocky lands —
Fickle Goddess, set me down
Where the rugged winters frown
Upon Orca's howling steep,
Nodding o'er the northern deep,
Where the winds tumultuous roar,
Vext that Ossian sings no more.
Fancy, to that land repair,
Sweetest Ossian slumbers there;
Waft me far to southern isles
Where the soften'd winter smiles,
To Bermuda's orange shades,
Or Demarara's lovely glades;
Bear me o'er the sounding cape,
Painting death in every shape,
Where daring Anson spread the sail
Shatter'd by the stormy gale —
Lo! she leads me wide and far,
Sense can never follow her —
Shape thy course o'er land and sea,
Help me to keep pace with thee,
Lead me to yon' chalky cliff,
Over rock and over reef,
Into Britain's fertile land,
Stretching far her proud command.
Look back and view, thro' many a year,
Cæsar, Julius Cæsar, there.
Now to Tempe's verdant wood,
Over the mid-ocean flood
Lo! the islands of the sea —
Sappho, Lesbos mourns for thee:
Greece, arouse thy humbled head,
Where are all thy mighty dead,
Who states to endless ruin hurl'd
And carried vengeance through the world? —
Troy, thy vanish'd pomp resume,
Or, weeping at thy Hector's tomb,
Yet those faded scenes renew,
Whose memory is to Homer due.
Fancy, lead me wandering still
Up to Ida's cloud-topt hill;
Not a laurel there doth grow
But in vision thou shalt show, —
Every sprig on Virgil's tomb
Shall in livelier colours bloom,
And every triumph Rome has seen
Flourish on the years between.
Now she bears me far away
In the east to meet the day,
Leads me over Ganges' streams,
Mother of the morning beams —
O'er the ocean hath she ran,
Places me on Tinian;
Farther, farther in the east,
Till it almost meets the west,
Let us wandering both be lost
On Taitis sea-beat coast,
Bear me from that distant strand,
Over ocean, over land,
To California's golden shore —
Fancy, stop, and rove no more.
Now, tho' late, returning home,
Lead me to Belinda's tomb;
Let me glide as well as you
Through the shroud and coffin too,
And behold, a moment, there,
All that once was good and fair —
Who doth here so soundly sleep?
Shall we break this prison deep? —
Thunders cannot wake the maid,
Lightnings cannot pierce the shade,
And tho' wintry tempests roar,
Tempests shall disturb no more.
Yet must those eyes in darkness stay,
That once were rivals to the day? —
Like heaven's bright lamp beneath the main
They are but set to rise again.
Fancy, thou the muses' pride,
In thy painted realms reside
Endless images of things,
Fluttering each on golden wings,
Ideal objects, such a store,
The universe could hold no more:
Fancy, to thy power I owe
Half my happiness below;
By thee Elysian groves were made,
Thine were the notes that Orpheus play'd;
By thee was Pluto charm'd so well
While rapture seiz'd the sons of hell —
Come, O come – perceiv'd by none,
You and I will walk alone.
 

[A] Milton's Paradise Lost, B. II, V. 1052. —Freneau's note.