"ODES ON VARIOUS SUBJECTS.

"_HE who does not read in the book of the Odes, is like a man standing with his face flat against a wall: he can neither move forward, nor stir an inch backward._--Hau Kiou Choaan."

This was Ode I of the series. It was republished only in the edition of 1795, the text of which I have followed.

[55] On July 14, 1789, the French people made their first armed stand against monarchial inst.i.tutions, attacking and destroying the Bastile.

TO CRISPIN O'CONNER

A BACK-WOODSMAN[56]

[Supposed to be written by Hezekiah Salem]

Wise was your plan when twenty years ago From Patrick's isle you first resolved to stray, Where lords and knights, as thick as rushes grow, And vulgar folks are in each other's way;

Where mother-country acts the step-dame's part, Cuts off, by aid of hemp, each petty sinner, And twice or thrice in every score of years Hatches sad wars to make her brood the thinner.

How few aspire to quit the ungrateful soil That starves the plant it had the strength to bear: How many stay, to grieve, and fret, and toil, And view the plenty that they must not share.

This you beheld, and westward set your nose, Like some bold prow, that ploughs the Atlantic foam, And left less venturous weights, like famished crows,-- To feed on hog-peas, hips, and haws, at home.

Safe landed here, not long the coast detained Your wary steps:--but wandering on, you found Far in the west, a paltry spot of land, That no man envied, and that no man owned.

A woody hill, beside a dismal bog-- This was your choice; nor were you much to blame: And here, responsive to the croaking frog, You grubbed, and stubbed, and feared no landlord's claim.

An axe, an adze, a hammer, and a saw; These were the tools, that built your humble shed: A c.o.c.k, a hen, a mastiff, and a cow: These were your subjects, to this desert led.

Now times are changed--and labour's nervous hand Bids harvests rise where briars and bushes grew; The dismal bog, by lengthy sluices drained, Supports no more hoa.r.s.e captain Bull Frog's crew.--

Prosper your toil!--but, friend, had you remained In lands, where starred and gartered n.o.bles shine, When you had, thus, to sixty years attained, What different fate, 'Squire Crispin, had been thine!

Nine pence a day, coa.r.s.e fare, a bed of boards, The midnight loom, high rents, and excised beer; Slave to dull squires, kings' brats, and huffish lords, (Thanks be to Heaven) not yet in fashion here!

[56] Published in the _National Gazette_, July 18, 1792, as Ode II in "Odes on Various Subjects." Text from the 1809 edition.

CRISPIN'S ANSWER

Much pleased am I, that you approve Freedom's blest cause that brought me here: Ireland I loved--but there they strove To make me bend to King and Peer.

I could not bow to n.o.ble knaves, Who Equal Rights to men deny: Scornful, I left a land of slaves, And hither came, my axe to ply:

The axe has well repaid my toil-- No king, no priest, I yet espy To tythe my hogs, to tax my soil, And suck my whiskey bottle dry.

In foreign lands what snares are laid!

There royal rights all right defeat; They taxed my sun, they taxed my shade, They taxed the offal that I eat.

They taxed my hat, they taxed my shoes, Fresh taxes still on taxes grew; They would have taxed my very nose, Had I not fled, dear friends, to you.

TO SHYLOCK AP-SHENKIN[57]

Since the day I attempted to print a gazette, This Shylock Ap-Shenkin does nothing but fret: Now preaching and screeching, then nibbling and scribbling, Remarking and barking, and whining and pining, and still in a pet, From morning 'till night, with my humble gazette.

Instead of whole columns our page to abuse, Your readers would rather be treated with News: While wars are a-brewing, and kingdoms undoing, While monarchs are falling, and princesses squalling, While France is reforming, and Irishmen storming-- In a glare of such splendour, what folly to fret At so humble a thing as a poet's Gazette!

No favours I ask'd from your friends in the East: On your wretched soup-meagre I left them to feast; So many base lies you have sent them in print, That scarcely a man at our paper will squint:-- And now you begin (with a grunt and a grin, With the bray of an a.s.s, and a visage of bra.s.s, With a quill in your hand and a Lie in your mouth) To play the same trick on the men of the South!

One Printer for Congress (some think) is enough, To flatter, and lie, to palaver, and puff, To preach up in favour of monarchs and t.i.tles, And garters, and ribbands, to prey on our vitals:

Who knows but Pomposo will give it in fee, Or make mister Shenkin the Grand Patentee!!!

Then take to your sc.r.a.pers, ye Republican Papers, No rogue shall go snacks--and the News-Paper Tax Shall be puff'd to the skies, as a measure most wise-- So, a spaniel, when master is angry, and kicks it, Sneaks up to his shoe, and submissively licks it.

[57] Text from the edition of 1795. First published in the _National Gazette_, July 28, 1792, as number three of the Odes. In this, its earliest version, the opening line was "Since the day we attempted the Nation's Gazette." Before the t.i.tle was the following: "Note well--the following is to be sung or said as occasion may require." Not reprinted in 1809.

TO MY BOOK[58]

Seven years are now elaps'd, dear rambling volume, Since, to all knavish wights a foe, I sent you forth to vex and gall 'em, Or drive them to the shades below: With spirit, still, of Democratic proof, And still despising Shylock's canker'd hoof: What doom the fates intend, is hard to say, Whether to live to some far-distant day, Or sickening in your prime, In this bard-baiting clime, Take pet, make wings, say prayers, and flit away.

"Virtue, order, and religion, "Haste, and seek some other region; "Your plan is laid, to hunt them down, "Destroy the mitre, rend the gown, "And that vile hag, Philosophy, restore"-- Did ever volume plan so much before?

For seven years past, a host of busy foes Have buzz'd about your nose, White, black, and grey, by night and day; Garbling, lying, singing, sighing: These eastern gales a cloud of insects bring That fluttering, snivelling, whimpering--on the wing-- And, wafted still as discord's demon guides, Flock round the flame, that yet shall singe their hides.

Well!--let the fates decree whate'er they please: Whether you're doom'd to drink oblivion's cup, Or Praise-G.o.d Barebones eats you up, This I can say, you've spread your wings afar, Hostile to garter, ribbon, crown, and star; Still on the people's, still on Freedom's side, With full determin'd aim, to baffle every claim Of well-born wights, that aim to mount and ride.

[58] First published in the _National Gazette_, August 4, 1792, as Ode IV in the series, "Odes on Various Subjects." It bore the t.i.tle "To the National Gazette." The opening stanza was as follows:

"Nine months are now elaps'd, dear rambling paper, Since first on this world's stage you cut your caper With spirit still of democratic proof, And still despising _Whaac.u.m's_ canker'd hoof-- What doom the fates decree, is hard to say, Whether to live to some far distant day, Or sickening in your prime In this news-taxing clime, Take pet, make wings, say prayers, and flit away.

AIR.