QUINTILIAN TO LYCIDAS[81]

"While other lads their books forsake, Or sigh to meet the hours of play: You, Lycidas, no leisure take, But still through learned volumes stray:-- With years so few, ah why so grave; Why every hour to books a slave?

Hence, Lycidas, I pray, retire: Go with your mates, and take your play-- Not him I prize, or much admire, Who, curious, hangs on all I say: The lad that's wise before his time, Will be a c.o.xcomb in his prime.

Stay not too close in learning's shop;-- 'Till time a riper mind prepares, The ball, the marble, and the top Are books, that should divide your cares-- The lads that life's gay morn enjoy, I'm pleased to see them act the boy.

I hate the pert, I hate the bold, Who, proud of years but half a score, With none but men would converse hold, And things beyond their reach explore: Like the famed Cretan, soaring high, To melt their waxen wings and die."

[81] First published, as far as I can find, in the 1795 edition. Text from the 1809 edition.

THE BAY ISLET[82]

In shallow streams, a league from town, (Its baby Light-House tumbled down) Extends a country, full in view, Beheld by all, but known to few.

Surrounded by the briny waste No haven here has Nature placed; But those who wish to pace it o'er Must land upon the open sh.o.r.e.

There as I sailed, to view the ground; No blooming G.o.ddesses I found-- But yellow hags, ordained to prove The death, and antidote of love.

Ten stately trees adorn the isle, The house, a crazy, tottering pile, Where once the doctor plied his trade On feverish tars and rakes decayed.

Six hogs about the pastures feed (Sweet mud-larks of the Georgia breed) Who, while the hostess deals out drams, Can oysters catch, and open clams.

Upon its surface, smooth and clean, A world, in miniature, is seen; Though scarce a journey for a snail We meet with mountain, hill, and vale.

To those that guard this stormy place, Two cities stare them in the face: There, York its spiry summits rears, And here c.u.mmunipaw appears.

The tenant, now but ill at ease, Derives no fuel from his trees: And Jersey boats, though begged to land, All leave him on the larboard hand.

Some monied man, grown sick of care, To this neglected spot repair: What Nature sketched, let art complete, And own the loveliest Country Seat.

[82] First published, as far as I have been able to find, in the 1795 edition. Text from the 1809 edition.

JEFFERY, OR, THE SOLDIER'S PROGRESS[83]

Lured by some corporal's smooth address, His scarlet coat and roguish face, One Half A Joe on drum head laid, A tavern treat--and reckoning paid; See yonder simple lad consigned To slavery of the meanest kind.

With only skill to drive a plough A musquet he must handle now; Must twirl it here and twirl it there, Now on the ground, now in the air: Its every motion by some rule Of practice, taught in Frederick's school,[A]

Must be directed--nicely true-- Or he be beaten black--and blue.

[A] The Prussian manual exercise.--_Freneau's note._

A sergeant, raised from cleaning shoes, May now this country lad abuse:-- On meagre fare grown poor and lean, He treats him like a mere machine, Directs his look, directs his step, And kicks him into decent shape, From aukward habits frees the clown, Erects his head--or knocks him down.

Last Friday week to Battery-green The sergeant came with this Machine-- One motion of the firelock missed-- The Tutor thumped him with his fist: I saw him lift his hickory cane, I heard poor Jeffery's head complain!-- Yet this--and more--he's forced to bear; And thus goes on from year to year, 'Till desperate grown at such a lot, He drinks--deserts--and so is shot!

[83] First published in the 1795 edition. Text from the 1809 edition.

TO SHYLOCK AP-SHENKIN[84]

In shallow caves, with shrill voic'd conchs hung round, And pumpkin-sh.e.l.ls, responding all they hear, A bard, call'd Shylock, catches every sound, Governs their tone, p.r.i.c.ks up his lengthy ear: In putrid ink then dips his pen of lead And scribbles down what learn'd Pomposo said.

Bard of the lengthy ode! whose knavish paw Ne'er touch'd the helm, besprent with odious pitch!

'Twas better far, you knew, to practice Law, Whine at the church, or in the court-house screech: No soul had you to face the wintry blast, Combat the storm, or climb the tottering mast.

Then why so wroth, thou bard of narrow soul, If wavering Fortune bade me seek the brine: I drank no nectar from your leaden bowl, Nor from your poems filch'd a single line: When I do that--then publish from your caves, Who robs a beggar--is the worst of knaves!

[84] This poem is unique, as far as I can discover, in the 1795 edition.

TO A WRITER OF PANEGYRIC[85]

Occasioned by certain fulsome Congratulatory Verses on the election of a High Constable

Be advised by a friend, who advises but rarely, Be cautious of praising 'till praise is earned fairly: There was a sage Ancient this truth did bequeath, "That merit is only determined by death."

Panegyric I'm sorry to see you engage in-- Old Nero, at first, was a t.i.tus, or Trajan: The Indians of Siam bow down to a Log, And Egypt is said to have worshipped a Dog.[A]

[A] ANUBIS.--One of the tutelar deities of ancient Egypt.--_Freneau's note._

If you will be throwing your jewels to swine, No wonder they rend you--whenever they dine-- Pray, leave it to puppies to cry up their worth, And to dunces, to honour the day of their birth.

Whoever the road to preferment would find, With the eyes of a Dutchman must look at mankind; From the basest of motives, cry cowards are brave, And laugh in his sleeve--when he flatters a knave.

[85] I can find no earlier trace of this poem than the 1795 edition.

Text from the 1809 edition.