Three weeks later, July 25, he again closed with the British at Bridgewater, or Lundy Lane, in the same vicinity. In both engagements the Americans were victorious.

ON POLITICAL SERMONS

When parsons preach on politics, pray why Should declamation cease, if you go by?

We heard a lecture, or a scold, And, doubtful which it might be call'd, But senseless as the bell that toll'd, And pleasing neither young nor old.

We kept our seats amid the din, Then quit the field, with all our sin, Just as good as we went in.

Tell me what the preacher said, Ye, who somewhat longer stay'd Till the last address was made:--

Why,--he talk'd of ruin'd states, Demagogues and democrates, Falling stars, and Satan's baits.

Did he mention nothing more?-- Simply, what he said before-- Repet.i.tions, twenty score.

His arguments could nothing prove, His text alarm'd the sacred grove, His prayer displeased the powers above.

He would not pray for those who rule, But hoped that in Bethesda's pool They all might dip, to make them cool.

He deprecated blood and war, Its many mischiefs did deplore Except when England mounts the car.

At Congress he had such a fling, As plainly show'd, he wish'd a king, Might here arrive, on Vulture's wing;

And that himself an horn might blow To shake our modern Jericho, And bring its ramparts very low.

To english notes his psalm was sung, With politics the pulpit rung, And thrice was bellow'd from his tongue, "The president is always wrong!

"He brought these evils on our land, And he must go--the time's at hand-- With Bonaparte to take his stand."--

Must not the wheels of fate go on?

Must not the lion's teeth be drawn, Because it suits not Prester John!--

A Bishop's Lawn is such a prize Such virtue in a mitre lies, Democracy before it flies.

And these he hopes, if George prevails, In time may hoist his shorten'd sails And waft him on, with fortune's gales.

To gain by preaching, nett and clear, Some twenty hundred pounds a year; Which democrats would never bear.

To England why so much a friend, Or why her cause with heat defend?-- There is, no doubt, some selfish end.

Dear Momus come, and help me laugh-- This England is the stay and staff Of true religion--more than half!

She is the prop of all that's good, A bulwark, which for ages stood To guard the path and mark the road!

One proof of which can soon be brought, The temple rais'd to Jaggernaut,[A]

And India to his temple brought,

[A] The temple of Jaggernaut, an idolatrous establishment in India, to the support of which the english government contributed largely. The unwieldy idol, to which the temple is dedicated, is, on certain days, carried about the streets on a huge carriage, under the wheels of which the superst.i.tious mult.i.tude, it is said, suffer themselves to be trampled and crushed to pieces, by hundreds, from a superst.i.tious motive. If this be not fiction, may the british government exert its influence to eradicate so barbarous and b.l.o.o.d.y a superst.i.tion from the minds of millions of idolatrous wretches.--_Freneau's note._

To see her murder'd, mangled sons, To worship idols, stocks, and stones, Or reliques of some scoundrel's bones.

And "long may heaven on England smile-- (So says our preacher, all the while) The world's last hope, fast anchor'd isle!"--

Religion there is made no sport, State tailors there have deckt her out In a birth-day suit--to go to court!--

LINES ON NAPOLEON BONAPARTE[203]

Napoleon, born for regal sway, With fortune in a smiling mood, To a foreign land explored his way, Where Cairo stands, or Memphis stood.

And still he fought, and still she smiled, And urged him far, and spurr'd him on, And on his march, at length beguiled, One thinking man to wear a crown.

The crown attracted many a care, And war employ'd him, day and night; He by a princess had an heir Born to succeed him, or--who might.

Through russian tribes he forced his way, To blast their hopes and hurl them down Whose valor might dispute his sway, Or dispossess him of a crown.

At last arrived the fatal time, When powerful tyrants, jealous grown, Agreed to count it for a crime A commoner should fill a throne.

European states, with England join'd To keep unmixt the royal race, And let the famed Napoleon find A dotard might supply his place.

[203] This poem and the one following were written shortly after the news of Napoleon's banishment to Elba, April 11, 1814, had reached America.

ON THE DISMISSION OF BONAPARTE

From the French Throne.

Famed Bonaparte, in regal pride, Put slighted Josephine aside, And wedded an imperial bride, Of fortune sure.

But when he droop'd, and when he fell, (I took my pen and mark'd it well) This jilt of jilts, this austrian belle, No longer styled him, Mon Amour;

Which means, I think, my dearest heart, My love!--but lovers often part When friendship does not point the dart, Nor fix the flame.

And warning, hence, let others take, Nor love's decree for interest break; In marriage, too much lies at stake To slight its claim.

Retreating to the tuscan coast, An empire, wife, and fortune lost, He found the throne a dangerous post, And wars a cheat;

Where all, who play their game too deep, Must hazard life, and discord reap, Or thrown from grandeur's giddy steep, Lament their fate.