The Poems of Philip Freneau Volume III Part 64

NOW fairest village of the fertile plain, Made fertile by the labours of the swain; Who first my drowsy spirit did inspire, To sing of woods, and strike the rural lyre: Who last shou'd see me wand'ring from thy cells, And groves of oak where contemplation dwells, Wou'd fate but raise me o'er the smaller cares, Of Life unwelcome and distressful years, Pedantic labours and a hateful ease, Which scarce the h.o.a.ry wrinkled sage cou'd please.

Hence springs each grief, each long reflective sigh, And not one comfort left but poetry.

Long, long ago with her I could have stray'd, To woods, to thickets or the mountain shade; Unfit for cities and the noisy throng, The drunken revel and the midnight song; The gilded beau and scenes of empty joy, Which please a moment and forever die.

Here then shall center ev'ry wish, and all The tempting beauties of this s.p.a.cious ball: No thought ambitious, and no bold design, But heaven born contemplation shall be mine.

In yonder village shall my fancy stray, Nor rove beyond the confines of to-day; The aged volumes of some plain divine, In broken order round my hut shou'd s.h.i.+ne; Whose solemn lines should soften all my cares, And sound devotion to th' eternal stars: And if one sin my rigid breast did stain, Thou poetry shou'dst be the darling sin; Which heav'n without repentance might forgive, And which an angel might commit and live: And where yon' wave of silent water falls, O'er the smooth rock or Adamantine walls: The summer morns and vernal eves should see, MILTON, immortal bard my company; Or SHAKESPEARE, DRYDEN, each high sounding name, The pride of BRITAIN, and one half her fame: Or him who wak'd the fairy muse of old, And pleasing tales of lands inchanted told.

Still in my hand, he his soft verse shou'd find His verse, the picture of the poets mind: Or heav'nly POPE, who now harmonious mourns, "Like the rapt seraph that adores and burns."

Then in sharp satire, with a giant's might, Forbids the blockhead and the fool to write: And in the centre of the bards be shown The deathless lines of G.o.dlike ADDISON; Who, bard thrice glorious, all delightful flows, And wrapt the soul of poetry in prose.

NOW cease, O muse, thy tender tale to chaunt, The smiling village, or the rural haunt; New scenes invite me, and no more I rove, To tell of shepherds, or the vernal grove.

[212] "The American Village," Freneau's first distinct poetical publication, was for many years known only from his description of it in a letter to Madison (see Vol. I, page xxii, _supra_). It was supposed to have been lost, until a copy was discovered in a volume of miscellaneous pamphlets which had been purchased by the Library of Congress in November, 1902. A second copy, still more recently discovered, is now in the John Carter Brown Library at Brown University. I have reproduced the entire text of this little volume with the original punctuation and spelling, using however the modern form of the "s", and correcting the _errata_ noted by the author.

THE FARMER'S WINTER EVENING

A POEM

_To the_ NYMPH _I never saw_.

FAR be the pleasures of the day, And mirth and festive joy from me, When cold December nips the plains, Or frozen January reigns.

Far he the hunts-man's noisy horn, And coursers fleet thro' thickets borne, Swift as the wind, and far the sight, Of snowy mountains, sadly white; But thou, O night, with sober charms, Shall clasp me in thy sable arms.

For thee I love the winter eve, The noisy day for thee I leave.

Beneath some mountain's tow'ring height, In cottage low I hail the night, Where jovial swains, with heart sincere, And timely mirth dishearten care: Each tells his tale, or chaunts a song Of her for whom he sigh'd so long; Of CLARA fair, or FLORA coy, Disdaining still her shepherd boy, While near the h.o.a.ry headed sage, Recalls the days of youthful age, Describes his course of manly years, His journey thro' this vale of tears; How champion he with champions met, And fiercely did they combat it, 'Till envious night in ebon chair, Urg'd faster on her chariotteer, And robb'd him, O for shame, of glory And feats fit for renown in story.-- Thus spent in tales the ev'ning hour, And quaffing juice of sober pow'r, Which handsome KATE with malt did steep, To lead on balmy visag'd sleep, While her neat hand the milk pail strains, A sav'ry supper for the swains.

And now the moon exalted high, Gives l.u.s.tre to the earth and sky, And from the mighty ocean's gla.s.s, Reflects the beauty of her face: About her orb you may behold, A thousand stars of burnish'd gold, Which slowly to the west retire, And lose awhile their glitt'ring fire.

O COULD I here find my abode, And live within this fancy'd wood, With thee the weeks and years to pa.s.s, My pretty rural shepherdess; With thee the cooling spring to sip, Or live upon thy damask lip: Then sacred groves, and shades divine, And all ARCADIA should be mine.

Steep me, steep me some poppies deep In beechen bowl, to bring on sleep; Love hath my mind in shackles kept, Thrice the c.o.c.k crew, nor once I slept.

O gentle sleep, wrap me in dreams, Of fields and woods, and running streams; Of rivers wide, and castles rare, And be my lovely FLORA there: A larger draught, a larger bowl To gratify my drowsy soul; "A larger draught is yet in store, Perhaps with this you wake no more."

Then I my lovely maid shall see thee Drinking the deep streams of LETHE, Where now dame ARETHUSA scatters Her soft stream with ALPHEUS' waters, To forget her earthly cares, Lost in LETHE, lost in years!

And I too will quaff the water, Lest it should be said, O daughter Of my giddy, wand'ring brain, I sigh'd for one I've never seen.

THE MISERABLE LIFE OF A PEDAGOGUE[213]

TO form the manners of our youth, To guide them in the way of truth, To lead them through the jarring schools, Arts, sciences, and grammar rules; Is certainly an arduous work, Enough to tire out Jew or Turk; And make a christian bite his nails, For do his best, he surely fails; And spite of all that some may say, His praise is trifling as his pay.

FOR My part I, tho' vers'd in booking, Still sav'd my carcase from such cooking; And always slyly shunn'd a trade, Too trifling as I thought and said; But at a certain crazy season, When men have neither sense or reason; By some confounded misadventure, I found myself just in it's centre.

ODD'S fish and blood, and noun and neuter, And tenses present, past and future: I utter'd with a wicked sigh, Where are my brains, or where am I?

The dullest creature of the wood, Knows how to shun the distant flood; Whales, dolphins, and a hundred more, Are not the fools to run ash.o.r.e.

WELL, now contented I must be, Forc'd by the dame Necessity, Who like the tribunal of Spain, Let's you speak once, but not again; And swift to execute the blow, Ne'er tells you why or whence it's so.

NOW I am ask'd a thousand questions, Of ALEXANDERS and EPHESTIONS; With sly designs to know if I Am vers'd in GRECIAN history; And then again my time destroy, With aukward grace to tell of TROY: From that huge giant POLYPHEMUS, Quite down to ROMULUS and REMUS.

Then I'm oblig'd to give them lectures, On quadrants, circles, squares and sectors; Or in my wretched mem'ry bear, What weighs a cubic inch of air.

"SIR, here's my son, I beg you'd mind, The graces have been very kind, And on him all their blessings shed, [Except a genius and a head]

Teach him the doctrine of the sphere, The sliding circle and the square, And starry worlds, I know not where: And let him quickly learn to say, Those learned words Penna, Pennae; Which late I heard our parson call As learning, knowledge all in all."

AND then a city dame approaches, Known by her hors.e.m.e.n, chairs and coaches: "Sir, here's my son, teach him to speak The Hebrew, Latin, and the Greek: And this I half forgot, pray teach My tender boy--the parts of speech-- But never let this son of me, Learn that vile thing astronomy: Upon my word it's all a sham,"-- O I'm your humble servant ma'am.

There certainly is something in it-- "Boy, drive the coach off in a minute."

And thus I'm left in street or road, A laughing stock to half the crowd, To argue with myself the case, And prove its being to my face.

A plague I say on such employment, Where's neither pleasure nor enjoyment: Whoe'er to such a life is ty'd, Was born the day he should have dy'd; Born in an hour when angry spheres Were tearing caps, or pulling ears: And Saturn slow 'gainst swift Mercurius, Was meditating battles furious; Or comets with their blazing train, Decreed their life, a life of pain.

[213] This poem was undoubtedly written while Freneau was conducting his school at Flatbush early in 1772. See Vol. I, page xxi.

UPON A VERY ANCIENT DUTCH HOUSE ON LONG ISLAND.[214]

Behold this antique dome by envious time, Grown crazy, and in ev'ry part decay'd; Full well, alas, it claims my humble rhyme, For such lone haunts and contemplation made.

Ah see the hearth, where once the chearful fire Blaz'd high, and warm'd the winter trav'lers toes; And see the walls, which once did high aspire, Admit the storms, and ev'ry wind that blows.

In yonder corner, now to ruin gone, The ancient housewife's curtain'd bed appear'd, Where she and her man JOHN did sleep alone, Nor nightly robber, nor the screech owl fear'd.

There did they snore full oft' the whole night out, Smoking the sable pipe, 'till that did fall, Reft from their jaws by Somnus' sleepy rout, And on their faces pour'd its scorched gall.

And in the compa.s.s of yon' smaller gang, The swain BATAVIAN once his courts.h.i.+p made, To some DUTCH la.s.s, as thick as she was long; "Come then, my angel, come," the shepherd said,

"And let us for the bridal bed prepare; For you alone shall ease my future life, And you alone shall soften all my care, My strong, my hearty, and industrious wife."

Thus they--but eating ruin now hath spread Its wings destructive o'er the antique dome; The mighty fabrick now is all a shed, Scarce fit to be the wand'ring beggar's home.

And none but me it's piteous fate lament, None, none but me o'er it's sad ashes mourn, Sent by the fates, and by APOLLO sent, To shed their latest tears upon it's silent urn.

[214] This is the germ of the poem, "The Deserted Farm-House," Vol. I, p. 40, _supra_. A comparison of the two versions will ill.u.s.trate the thorough way in which Freneau often revised his poems.

B. LIST OF OMITTED POEMS.

It has been found necessary for various reasons to omit some of the poems that appear in the various editions of Freneau. For the most part this omitted material has no historic or poetic significance. Nothing would be gained by resurrecting it. It is only just to the poet, however, to state that aside from a single piece, nothing has been omitted on account of coa.r.s.eness alone. In each case the earliest known t.i.tle is given in the list that follows. When a t.i.tle was significantly changed in later editions, the variation has been given in a foot note, with date of edition.

FROM THE 1786 EDITION.