TO A DOG[376]

Occasioned by putting him on sh.o.r.e at the Island of Sapola, for theft

Since Nature taught you, Tray, to be a thief, What blame have you, for working at your trade?

What if you stole a handsome round of beef; Theft, in your code of laws, no crime was made.

The ten commandments you had never read, Nor did it ever enter in your head: But art and Nature, careful to conceal, Disclos'd not even the Eighth--_Thou shalt not steal_.

Then to the green wood, caitiff, haste away: There take your chance to live--for Truth must say, We have no right, for theft, to hang up Tray.

[376] First published in the _National Gazette_, Nov. 3, 1791. Sapola Island is one of the sea-islands of McIntosh County, Georgia, forty-two miles southwest of Savannah. The somewhat unusual proceeding of putting a worthless dog on sh.o.r.e, instead of the more common expedient of killing him at once, is only another evidence of the poet's kindly heart. Text from the edition of 1809.

TO LYDIA[377]

"_Tu procul a patria, ah dura! inculta deserta, Me sine, sola videbis----_ VIRG. ECLOG.

Thus, safe arrived, she greets the strand, And leaves her pilot for the land; But Lydia, why to deserts roam, And thus forsake your floating home!

To what fond care shall I resign The bosom, that must ne'er be mine: With lips, that glow beyond all art, Oh! how shall I consent to part!--

Long may you live, secure from woes, Late dying, meet a calm repose, And flowers, that in profusion grow, Bloom round your steps, where'er you go.

On you all eyes delight to gaze, All tongues are lavish in your praise; With you no beauty can compare, Nor Georgia boast one flower so fair.

Could I, fair girl, transmit this page, A present, to some future age, You should through every poem shine, You, be adored in every line:

From Jersey coasts too loth to sail, Sighing, she left her native vale; Borne on a stream that met the main, Homeward she looked, and looked again.

The gales that blew from off the land Most wantonly her bosom fanned, And, while around that heaven they strove, Each whispering zephyr owned his love.

As o'er the seas, with you I strayed, The hostile winds our course delayed, But, proud to waft a charge so fair, To me were kind--and held you there.

I could not grieve, when you complained That adverse gales our barque detained Where foaming seas to mountains grow, From gulphs of death, concealed below.

When travelling o'er that lonely wave To me your feverish hand you gave, And sighing, bade me tell you, true, What lands again would rise to view!

When night came on, with bl.u.s.tering gale, You feared the tempest would prevail, And anxious asked, if I was sure That on those depths we sailed secure?

Delighted with a face so fair, I half forgot my weight of care, The dangerous shoal, that seaward runs, Encircled moons, and shrouded suns.

With timorous heart and tearful eyes, You saw the deep Atlantic rise, Saw wintry clouds their storms prepare, And wept, to find no safety there.

Throughout the long December's night, (While still your lamp was burning bright) To dawn of day from evening's close My pensive girl found no repose.

Then now, at length arrived from sea, Consent, fair nymph, to stay with me-- The barque--still faithful to her freight, Shall still on your direction wait.

Such charms as your's all hearts engage!

Sweet subject of my glowing page, Consent, before my Argo roves To sun-burnt isles and savage groves.

When sultry suns around us glare, Your poet, still, with fondest care, To cast a shade, some folds will spread Of his coa.r.s.e topsails o'er your head.

When round the barque the billowy wave And howling winds, tempestuous, rave, By caution ruled, the helm shall guide Safely, that Argo o'er the tide.

Whene'er some female fears prevail, At your request we'll reef the sail, Disarm the gales that rudely blow, And bring the loftiest canvas low.

When rising to hara.s.s the main Old Boreas drives his bl.u.s.tering train, Still shall they see, as they pursue, Each tender care employed for you.

To all your questions--every sigh!

I still will make a kind reply; Give all you ask, each whim allow, And change my style to _thee_ and _thou_.

If verse can life to beauty give, For ages I can make you live; Beyond the stars, triumphant, rise, While Cynthia's tomb neglected lies:

Upon that face of mortal clay I will such lively colours lay, That years to come shall join to seek All beauty from your modest cheek.

Then, Lydia, why our bark forsake; The road to western deserts take?

That lip--on which hung half my bliss, Some savage, now, will bend to kiss;

Some rustic soon, with fierce attack, May force his arms about that neck; And you, perhaps, will weeping come To seek--in vain--your floating home!

[377] There is a discrepancy in the dates given to this poem. It was published in the _Freeman's Journal_, Sept. 3, 1788, with the preliminary remarks: "The following copy of verses came accidentally into my hands. I am told that it was written by Capt. Freneau and addressed to a young Quaker lady who went pa.s.senger in his vessel to Georgia to reside in the western parts of that State. From the New York Daily Advertiser." It was reprinted in the 1795 edition, and in the edition of 1809, where it has the note: "Miss Lydia Morris, a young quaker lady, on her landing from the sloop Industry, at Savannah, in Georgia, December 30th, 1806." I have followed the 1809 text.

TO CYNTHIA[378]

Through Jersey[379] groves, a wandering stream That still its wonted music keeps, Inspires no more my evening dream, Where Cynthia, in retirement, sleeps.

Sweet murmuring stream! how blest art thou To kiss the bank where she resides, Where Nature decks the beechen bough That trembles o'er your shallow tides.

The cypress-tree on Hermit's height, Where Love his soft addresses paid By Luna's pale reflected light-- No longer charms me to its shade!

To me, alas! so far removed, What raptures, once, that scenery gave, Ere wandering yet from all I loved, I sought a deeper, drearier wave.

Your absent charms my thoughts employ: I sigh to think how sweet you sung, And half adore the painted toy That near my careless heart you hung.

Now, fettered fast in icy fields, In vain we loose the sleeping sail; The frozen wave no longer yields, And useless blows the favouring gale.

Yet, still in hopes of vernal showers, And breezes, moist with morning dew, I pa.s.s the lingering, lazy hours, Reflecting on the spring--and you.