The Poems of Philip Freneau Volume III Part 53

"Then traitor come! as black revenge excites, Extinguish all our claims with all my lights!

But keen remorse, which vengeful furies lead, Will act her part for this inhuman deed.

How will her vultures on your vitals prey!

How will her stings our every death repay!-- O nature! is all sympathy a jest; Art thou a stranger to the human breast?

Has manly prowess quit the abandon'd stage, Are midnight plots the order of the age?

"Where proud New-London holds her flaming guide To steer Decatur through the darksome tide, I stay too long! what station can I find To shake distraction from a tortured mind!

"Then, traitor, come! your dark attack begin, Renown'd inventor of the black machine: But mark!--for when some future poet tells, Or some historian on the subject dwells, No word of praise shall meet the listening ear, Disgustful story, to repeat or hear-- Was you, an infant, to a mother press'd, Or did ferocious tigers give the breast-- Did nature in some angry moment plan Some fierce hyena to degrade the man?

Resolve me quick, for doubtful while I stay These dark torpedoes may be on their way.

Does nature thus her heaviest curse impart And will she give such countenance to art?-- She gave you all that rancor could bestow, She lent her magic from the world below; She gave you all that madness could propose, And all her malice in your bosom glows; She gave you sulphur, charcoal, nitre join'd: She gave you not--a great and generous mind."

So spoke the knight, and slamm'd the door, And thus went on, with feelings sore: "I relish not torpedo war:-- Die when I will, or where I may, I would not choose so short a way: These twenty nights I did my best To shut my eyes, and take my rest, But drowsy Morpheus might as well Upon the main mast try his spell.

No potion from the poppy's leaf Can close my lids;--and, to be brief, This Fulton, with his das.h.i.+ng plans, Distracts my head, my heart unmans: And, every night, I have my fears Of such infernal engineers; Who, when I sup, or could I sleep Might row their wherry through the deep, And screw their engine to the keel, And blow us--where there's no appeal; No question how, or where we died, But how we lived, and how applied The little sense our heads contain To save our souls, and live again.

"They, who support torpedo plans Should have no plaudit for their pains; Should be employ'd on dark designs, Explorers of peruvian mines; Such have not felt the patriot glow, A feeling they could never know: For treasons they were surely made, Have princes slain and kings betray'd.-- Ye powers above! and must I wait Till these prevail in every state, Till pale disease, or s.h.i.+vering age Drives such false patriots from the stage!

"The chaplain said he heard me snore, But many a fib he told before; And if I snored, I'm satisfied Twas when my eyes were open wide.

"Torpedoes! who contrived the word?

Torpedoes! worse than gun or sword!

They are a mode of naval war We cannot have a relish for:-- In all the chronicles I read Of former times, they nothing said Of such a horrible machine That would disgrace an algerine, And only yankees would employ, Not to distress, but to destroy.

"What human eye, without dismay Can see torpedo-lightning's play?

What mortal heart, but dreads a foe That fights unseen from fields below!

"What pa.s.sion must that heart inspire That dives the sea, to deal in fire, What can he fear, I trembling ask Who undertakes the daring task?

"With engines of perdition spread, Amazed, I see the ocean's bed!

And find with rage, regret, despair, I have no power to meet them there!

"Alack! my nerves are on the rack-- They're hammering at the garboard streak!

Some yankee dog is near the keel!

Ho, sailors give the s.h.i.+p a heel: Go, chaplain, to the starboard chains And ask the rascal what he means?

Who knows but Fulton's self is there With all his dark infernal gear: Who knows but he has fix'd his screws, And left a match, to fire the fuze-- Who knows, but in this very hour, The Ramillies will be no more!

Will only live in empty fame, And I, myself, be but a name!

"Should the torpedo take effect, Her carca.s.s will be worse than wreck'd; In scatter'd fragments to the sky This s.h.i.+p of s.h.i.+ps will clattering fly: And then--ah, chaplain!--ah, what then!

Where will I be, and all my men?

And where will you a lodging find, A traveller on a gale of wind!

And where will be the pretty maid That sweeps my floor and makes my bed?

Oh f.a.n.n.y, f.a.n.n.y! must we part?-- Torpedoes!--I am sick at heart!-- How will the flames those lips deface!

How will they spoil that blooming face!

How will they scorch your auburn hair--?

--You'll have your plagues, and I my share.

And must I all my fears impart; And do these guns my s.h.i.+p ensure?

And must I ask my fluttering heart If on these decks I stand secure?

"Do, f.a.n.n.y, go and boil some tea: Come hither, love, and comfort me: A gla.s.s of wine! my spirits sink!

The last perhaps that I shall drink!-- Or go--unlock the brandy case And let us have a dram a piece;-- No matter if your nose is red, We shall be sober when we're dead.

"In fancy's view the mine is sprung, The rudder from the stern unhung, My valiant sailors torn asunder, The s.h.i.+p herself a clap of thunder, From fathoms down, a deadly blast Unbolts the keel, unsteps the mast, While Fulton, with a placid grin Exulting, views the infernal scene!

The sails are vanish'd, tack and clue, The rigging burnt, by lord knows who, The star that glitter'd on my breast Is gone to Davy Jones's chest; The glorious ensign of st. George, Of Spain the dread, of France the scourge, Is from the staff, unpitied, torn And for a cloak by satan worn: The Lion mounted on the prow, To awe the subject sea below With flames that Lion is oppress'd-- They will not spare the royal beast.-- O vengeance! why does vengeance sleep?

The yards are scatter'd o'er the deep, Our guns are buried in the seas, And thus concludes the Ramillies!

"The world, I think, can witness bear My name was never stain'd by fear: At least the british fleet can say I never shunn'd the face of clay: But Fulton's black, infernal art-- Has stamp'd me--coward--to the heart!

"When Nelson met the spanish fleet, And every pulse for conquest beat, At Nelson's side I had my stand; When Nelson fell I took command: Not Etna's self, with all her flames-- Vesuvius--such description claims; Not Hecla, in her wildest rage, Does with such fires the heavens engage, As on that day, in mourning clad, Was thunder'd from the Trinidad.[A]

[A] The Santa Trinidada, the spanish admiral's s.h.i.+p, of 112 guns, from the mizen top of which admiral Nelson was mortally wounded by a musket shot. Another account says, he received his death wound from the Redoubtable, french 74.--_Freneau's note._

"And yet, amidst that awful scene, I stood unhurt, composed, serene; Though b.a.l.l.s, by thousands, whistled round, Not one had leave to kill or wound-- But here! in this torpedo war I perish, with my glittering star, The laurels that adorn my brow-- My laurels are surrender'd now.

O f.a.n.n.y! these envenom'd states Have doom'd our deaths among the rats, In one explosion, to the sky Our chaplain, rats, and sailors fly.

"To deal in such inhuman war Is more than English blood can bear; It brings again the gothic age, Renews that period on the stage, When men against the G.o.ds rebell'd, And Ossa was on Pelion piled: The trojan war, when Diomede In battle, made fair Venus bleed; Or, when the giants of renown Attempted Jove's imperial crown:-- From such a foe, before we meet, The safest way, is to retreat, To leave this curst unlucky sh.o.r.e And come to trouble them no more.

"But, should it be my fate to-night Not to behold to-morrow's light But mingle with the vulgar dead, With all my terrors on my head-- Should such a fate be mine, I say, Dear f.a.n.n.y, you must lead the way;-- You are the saint that will atone For what amiss I might have done: If such as you will intercede The chaplain may a furlow plead, While you and I in raptures go Where stormy winds no longer blow, Where guns are not, to shed our blood, Or if there be, are made of wood; Where all is love, and no one hates; No falling kings or rising states; No colors that we must defend, If sick, or dead, or near our end; Where yankees are admitted not To hatch their d.a.m.n'd torpedo plot: Where you will have no beds to make, Nor I be doom'd to lie awake."

[201] It is a fact well ascertained that during a great part of the summer of 1814 the knight was under such serious apprehensions of being blown up by the Torpedo men, that he enjoyed no sleep or rest for many nights together. With such feelings, and under such impressions, he is supposed to begin his soliloquy abruptly, under all the emotions of horror, incident to such an occasion.--_Freneau's note._

Sir Thomas Hardy was commander of the 74 gun s.h.i.+p _Ramillies_, the leader of the squadron which lay off New London during the summer of 1814. The following in _Niles' Register_, May 7, 1814, is suggestive: "It appears the British squadron off _New London_ are yet disturbed by torpedoes. One of them lately exploded under the sprit-sail yard of the _La Hoque_, and threw up a volume of water near her fore top. The enemy, it seems, has a list of the persons concerned in the management of these machines!"

THE NORTHERN MARCH

Written Previously to the Battles of Chippewa and Bridgewater.[202]

Come, to the battle let us go, Hurl destruction on the foe; Who commands us, well we know, Tis the gallant general Brown.

Haste away from field or town, Pull the hostile standard down-- If but led by general Brown What will be the event, we know.

If but led against that foe, Soon their doom the english know, Soon their haughtiest blood shall flow, When opposed to general Brown.

Haste away from town and farm: If we meet them, where's the harm?

English power has lost its charm, England's fame is tumbling down.

Long she ruled the northern waste, Freedom is by her debased, Freedom is not to her taste; All the world must wear her chain!!!

"Not a keel shall plough the wave, Not a sail, without her leave; Not a fleet, the nations have, Safe from her, shall stem the main!!!

Let this day's heroic deeds Let the generous breast that bleeds, Let our chief who bravely leads Tell them that their reign is done: Soon to quit Columbia's sh.o.r.e, Is their doom--we say no more; General Brown, in the cannon's roar Tells them how the field is won!

[202] Early in the year 1814 the British army obtained possession of Fort Niagara and thereupon determined to remove the seat of the war to the Niagara frontier. The American expedition intended to invade Canada was directed, under command of General Jacob Brown, to dislodge the British from this position. The first decisive action was the battle of Chippewa, fought July 5, 1814, on Canadian soil, opposite Niagara Falls.