Though heaven bestow'd on all its sons Their proper share of brain, It gives to few, ye simple ones, The mind of Thomas Paine.

To tyrants and the tyrant crew, Indeed, he was the bane; He writ, and gave them all their due, And signed it,--Thomas Paine.

Oh! how we loved to see him write And curb the race of Cain!

They hope and wish that Thomas P---- May never rise again.

What idle hopes!--yes--such a man May yet appear again.-- When they are dead, they die for aye: --Not so with Thomas Paine.

[198] From the edition of 1815.

PART VI

THE WAR OF 1812

1809-1815

THE WAR OF 1812

1809-1815

ON THE SYMPTOMS OF HOSTILITIES.[199]

1809

But will they once more be engaged in a war, Be fated to discord again?

A peace to the nations will nothing restore But the challenge of death and a deluge of gore!

A modern crusade Is undoubtedly made:-- With treaties rejected, and treaties renew'd, A permanent treaty they never conclude.

And who is to blame? we submissively ask-- Did nature predestine this curse to mankind; Or is it the cruel detestable task That tyrants impose, with their minions combined?

We are anxious to know The source of our wo In a world where the blessings of nature abound Why discord, the bane of her blessings, is found.

Must our freedom, our labors, our commerce, our all Be tamely surrender'd, to tyrants convey'd; Must the flag of the country disgracefully fall, To be torn by the dogs of the slaughtering trade?

Does no one reply, With a tear in his eye, It must be the case, if we do not resent What monarchs have menaced and tyranny meant.

Not a ship, or a barque, that departs from the sh.o.r.e But her cargo is plunder'd, her sailors are slain, Or arriving in England, we see them no more, Condemn'd in the court of deceit and chicane, Where their wicked decrees And their costs and their fees Have ruin'd the merchant--mechanics half fed, And sailors uncaptured are begging their bread.

To reason with tyrants is surely absurd; To argue with them is to preach to the deaf: They argue alone by the length of the sword; Their honor the same as the word of a thief.

In such to confide When a cause they decide, Is the wolf and the lamb (if the tale we recall) Where the weakest and meekest must go to the wall.

But an englishman's throat is expanded so wide Not the ocean itself is a mess for his maw: And missions there are, and a scoundrel employ'd To divide, and to rule by the florentine law[A]: New-England must join In the knavish design, As some have predicted to those who believe 'em; --The event is at hand--may the devil deceive 'em.

[A] Nicholas Machiavel's maxim, _divide et impera_; divide and govern. He was a native of Florence, in Italy.--_Freneau's note._

With an empire at sea and an empire on land, And the system projected, monopolization, The western republic no longer will stand Than answers the views of a desperate nation, Who have shackled the east, Made the native a beast, And are scheming to give us--the matter is clear-- A man of their own for the president's chair,

Then arouse from your slumbers, ye men of the west, Already the indian his hatchet displays; Ohio's frontier, and Kentucky distrest; The village, and cottage, are both in a blaze:-- Then indian and english No longer distinguish, They bribe, and are bribed, for a warfare accurst; Of the two, we can hardly describe which is worst.

In the court of king Hog was a council convened, In which they agreed we are growing too strong: They snuffled and grunted, and loudly complained The sceptre would fall, if they suffer'd it long; To cut up our trade Was an object, they said, The nearest and dearest of all in their view; Not a fish should be caught if old England said, No!

Then arouse from your slumbers, ye men of the west, A war is approaching, there's room to suppose; The rust on your guns we abhor and detest, So brighten them up--we are coming to blows With the queen of the ocean The prop of devotion, The bulwark of all that is truly divine; A motto she often has put on her sign.

[199] The poems in this section are all from the edition of 1815.

LINES ADDRESSED TO MR. JEFFERSON,

On his retirement from the Presidency of the United States.--1809.

Praesenti tibi maturos largimur honores--_Hor._

To you, great sir, our heartfelt praise we give, And your ripe honors yield you--while you live.

At length the year, which marks his course, expires, And Jefferson from public life retires; That year, the close of years, which own his claim, And give him all his honors, all his fame.

Far in the heaven of fame I see him fly, Safe in the realms of immortality: On Equal Worth his honor'd mantle falls, Him, whom Columbia her true patriot calls; Him, whom we saw her codes of freedom plan, To none inferior in the ranks of man.

When to the helm of state your country call'd No danger awed you and no fear appall'd; Each bosom, faithful to its country's claim, Hail'd Jefferson, that long applauded name; All, then, was dark, and wrongs on wrongs accrued Our treasures wasted, and our strength subdued; What seven long years of war and blood had gain'd, Was lost, abandon'd, squander'd, or restrain'd: Britania's tools had schemed their easier way, To conquer, ruin, pillage, or betray; Domestic traitors, with exotic, join'd, To shackle this last refuge of mankind; Wars were provoked, and France was made our foe, That George's race might govern all below, O'er this wide world, uncheck'd, unbounded, reign, Seize every clime, and subjugate the main.

All this was seen--and rising in your might, By genius aided, you reclaim'd our right, That Right, which conquest, arms, and valor gave To this young nation--not to live a slave.

And what but toil has your long service seen?

Dark tempests gathering over a sky serene-- For wearied years no mines of wealth can pay, No fame, nor all the plaudits of that day, Which now returns you to your rural shade, The sage's heaven, for contemplation made, Who, like the Roman, in their country's cause Exert their valor, or enforce its laws, And late retiring, every wrong redress'd, Give their last days to solitude and rest.

This great reward a generous nation yields-- Regret attends you to your native fields; Their grateful thanks for every service done, And hope, your th.o.r.n.y race of care is run.

From your sage counsels what effects arise!

The vengeful briton from our waters flies; His thundering ships no more our coasts a.s.sail, But seize the advantage of the western gale.

Though bold and b.l.o.o.d.y, warlike, proud, and fierce, They shun your vengeance for a Murdered Pearce, And starved, dejected, on some meagre sh.o.r.e, Sigh for the country they shall rule no more.

Long in the councils of your native land, We saw you cool, unchanged, intrepid, stand: When the firm Congress, still too firm to yield, Stay'd masters of the long contested field, Your wisdom aided, what their counsels framed-- By you the murdering savages were tamed-- That Independence we had sworn to gain, By you a.s.serted (nor Declared in vain) We seized, triumphant, from a tyrant's throne, And Britain totter'd when the work was done.

You, when an angry faction vex'd the age, Rose to your place at once, and check'd their rage; The envenom'd shafts of malice you defied, And turn'd all projects of revolt aside:-- We saw you libell'd by the worst of men, While h.e.l.l's red lamp hung quivering o'er his pen, And fiends congenial every effort try To blast that merit which shall never die--

These had their hour, and traitors wing'd their flight, To aid the screechings of distracted night.