THE FOREST BEAU[86]

[A Picture from Reality]

When first to feel Love's fire Jack Straw begins, He combs his hair, and c.o.c.ks his hat with pins, Views in some stream, his face, with fond regard, Plucks from his upper lip the bristly beard, With soap and sand his homely visage scours (Rough from the joint attacks of sun and showers) The sheepskin breeches decorate his thighs-- Next on his back the homespun coat he tries; Round his broad breast he wraps the jerkin blue, And sews a s.p.a.cious soal on either shoe.

Thus, all prepared, the fond adoring swain Cuts from his groves of pine a ponderous cane; In thought a beau, a savage to the eye, Forth, from his mighty bosom, heaves the sigh; Tobacco is the present for his fair, This he admires, and this best pleases her-- The bargain struck,--few cares his bosom move How to maintain, or how to lodge his love; Close at his hand the piny forest grows, Thence for his hut a slender frame he hews, With art, (not copied from Palladio's rules,) A hammer and an axe, his only tools, By Nature taught, a hasty hut he forms Safe in the woods, to shelter from the storms;-- There sees the summer pa.s.s and winter come, Nor envies Britain's king his loftier home.

[86] From the edition of 1809. First published, as far as I can discover, in 1795.

EPISTLE[87]

To a Student of Dead Languages

I pity him, who, at no small expense, Has studied sound instead of sense: He, proud some antique gibberish to attain; Of Hebrew, Greek, or Latin, vain, Devours the husk, and leaves the grain.

In his own language Homer writ and read, Nor spent his life in poring on the dead: Why then your native language not pursue In which all ancient sense (that's worth review) Glows in translation, fresh and new?

He better plans, who things, not words, attends, And turns his studious hours to active ends; Who Art through every secret maze explores, Invents, contrives--and Nature's hidden stores From mirrours, to their object true, Presents to man's obstructed view, That dimly meets the light, and faintly soars:--

His strong capacious mind By fetters unconfin'd Of Latin lore and heathen Greek, Takes Science in its way, Pursues the kindling ray 'Till Reason's morn shall on him break!

[87] Unique, as far as I can find, in the 1795 edition.

TO A NOISY POLITICIAN[88]

Since Shylock's Book has walk'd the circles here, What numerous blessings to our country flow!

Whales on our sh.o.r.es have run aground, Sturgeons are in our rivers found; Nay, ships have on the Delaware sail'd, A sight most new!

Wheat has been sown, harvests have grown, And Shylock held strange dialogues with Sue.

On coaches, now, gay coats of arms are wore By some, who hardly had a coat before: Silk gowns instead of homespun, now, are seen, And, sir, 'tis true ('twixt me and you) That some have grown prodigious fat, That were prodigious lean!

[88] Unique, as far as I can discover, in the edition of 1795.

THE s.e.xTON'S SERMON[89]

At the Burial of a Deist

A few short years, at most, will bound our span; ("Wretched and few," the Hebrew patriarch said) Live while you may, be jovial while you can; Too soon our debt to Nature, must be paid.

When Nature fails, the man exists no more, And death is nothing but an empty name, Spleen's odious offspring, in some gloomy hour;-- The coward's tyrant, and the bad man's dream.

You ask me, where those numerous hosts have fled That once existed on this changeful ball?

If aught remains, when mortal man is dead,[A]

Where ere their birth they were, they now are all.

[A] Queris quo loco jaceant omnes mortui?

------------ Ubi non nata jacent.

_Seneca Trag.--Freneau's note._

Seek not for Paradise!--'tis not for you Where, high in heaven, its sweetest blossoms blow; Nor even, where gliding to the Persian main, Your waves, Euphrates, through the garden flow,

What is this Death, ye thoughtless mourners, say?

Death is no more than never-ceasing change: New forms arise, while other forms decay, Yet, all is life throughout creation's range.

The towering Alps, the haughty Appenine, The Andes, wrapt in everlasting snow, The Apalachian, and the Ararat, Sooner or later, must to ruin go.

Hills sink to plains, and man returns to dust; That dust supports a reptile or a flower; Each changeful atom, by some other nursed, Takes some new form, to perish in an hour.

When Nature bids thee from the world retire, With joy thy lodging leave, a sated guest, In sleep's blest state (our Dullman's fond desire) Existing always--always to be blest.

Like insects busy in a summer's day, We toil and squabble, to increase our pain: Night comes at last, and weary of the fray, To dust and silence all are sent again!

Beneath my hand what numerous crowds retire-- By the cold turf for ages, now, oppressed!

Millions have fallen--and millions must expire, Doomed by the impartial Power to endless rest.

In vain with stars He decked yon' spangled skies, And bade the mind to heaven's bright regions soar, And brought so far to your admiring eyes A glimpse of glories, that shall blaze no more!

What is there here, that man should wish to bear A weight of years?--such rage to madness vext; Wan, wasting, grief, and ever musing care, Distressful pain, and poverty perplext?--

What is there here, but tombs and monuments-- Tyrants--who misery spread through every sh.o.r.e; Wide wasting wars, the scourge of innocence; Fevers and plagues, with all their noxious store?

Before we called this wrangling world our home, In undisturbed abodes we sweetly slept: But when dame Nature made that world our doom, 'Twas then our troubles came--and then we wept!

Though humbled now, disheartened, or distressed, Yet, when returning to the peaceful ground, With heroes, kings, and conquerors we shall rest; Shall sleep as sweetly, and no doubt, as sound.

Ne'er shall we hope to see the day-light spring Or from the up-lifted window lean to hear (Fore-runner of the scarlet-mantled morn) The early note of wakeful Chanticleer!

Oblivion there, expands her raven wing:-- We soon must go where all the dead are gone, Trace the dull path, explore the gloomy road To that dark country, where I see no dawn.

Then why these sobs, these useless floods of woe, That vainly flow for the departed dead?

If doomed to wander on the coasts below, What are to them these floods of grief you shed?