LAURENS! thy tomb while kindred hands adorn, Let northern muses, too, inscribe your urn.-- Of all, whose names on death's black list appear, No chief, that perished, claimed more grief sincere, Not one, Columbia, that thy bosom bore, More tears commanded, or deserved them more!

Grief at his tomb shall heave the unwearied sigh, And honour lift the mantle to her eye: Fame through the world his patriot name shall spread, By heroes envied and by monarchs read: Just, generous, brave--to each true heart allied: The Briton's terror, and his country's pride; For him the tears of war-worn soldiers ran, The friend of freedom, and the friend of man.

Then what is death, compared with such a tomb, Where honour fades not, and fair virtues bloom; When silent grief on every face appears, The tender tribute of a nation's tears; Ah! what is death, when deeds like his, thus claim The brave man's homage, and immortal fame!

[297] Published in the _Freeman's Journal_, October 17, 1787, introduced as follows:

"Mr. BAILEY,

The subsequent lines were written two or three years after the event that occasioned them, but have never been printed. If you think them in any degree worthy of the memory of the patriotic young officer they attempt to celebrate (and whose death has been so deeply regretted throughout America) I must request you to insert them in your Journal.

A. B."

The 1788 edition prints the poem with this t.i.tle: "To the Memory of the brave, accomplished and patriotic Col. JOHN LAURENS, Who in the 27th year of his age, was killed in an engagement with a detachment of the British from Charleston, near the river Cambahee, in South Carolina, _August 1782_." The text follows the edition of 1809.

[298] In 1780 Laurens was sent by Congress on a mission to France for a loan and supplies, in which he was successful.

ON THE VICISSITUDES OF THINGS[299]

"The constant lapse of rolling years Awakes our hopes, provokes our fears Of something yet unknown; We saw the last year pa.s.s away, But who, that lives can safely say, The next shall be his own?"

So hundreds talk--and thousands more Descant their moral doctrines o'er; And when the preaching's done, Each goes his various, wonted way, To labour some, and some to play-- So goes the folly on.

How swift the vagrant seasons fly; They're hardly born before they die, Yet in their wild career, Like atoms round the rapid wheel, We seem the same, though changing still, Mere reptiles of a year.

Some haste to seek a wealthy bride, Some, rhymes to make on one that died; And millions curse the day, When first in Hymen's silken bands The parson joined mistaken hands, And bade the bride obey.

While sad Amelia vents her sighs, In epitaphs and elegies, For her departed dear, Who would suppose the m.u.f.fled bell, And mourning gowns, were meant to tell, Her grief will last--a year?

In folly's path how many meet-- What hosts will live to lie and cheat-- How many empty pates May, in this wise, eventful year, In native dignity appear To manage Rising States!

How vain to sigh!--the wheel must on And straws are to the whirlpool drawn, With ships of gallant mien-- What has been once, may time restore; What now exists, has been before-- Years only change the scene.

In endless circles all things move; Below, about, far off, above, This motion all attain-- If Folly's self should flit away, She would return some New year's day, With millions in her train.

Sun, moon, and stars, are each a sphere, The earth the same, (or very near), Sir Isaac has defined-- In circles each coin is cast, And hence our cash departs so fast, Cash--that no charm can bind.

From you to us--from us it rolls To comfort other cloudy souls:-- If again we make it square,[A]

Perhaps the uneasy guest will stay To cheer us in some wintry day, And smooth the brow of care.

[A] The old Continental.--_Freneau's note._

[299] This appeared first as the regular New Year's sheet of the _Freeman's Journal_, January 1, 1785. Its original t.i.tle was, "New Year's Verses, addressed to the Customers of the Freeman's Journal by the Lad who carries it." Text from the edition of 1809.

PEWTER-PLATTER ALLEY[300]

In Philadelphia

(As it appeared in January, 1784)

From Christ-Church graves, across the way, A dismal, horrid place is found, Where rushing winds exert their sway, And Greenland winter chills the ground: No blossoms there are seen to bloom, No sun pervades the dreary gloom!

The people of that gloomy place In penance for some ancient crime Are held in a too narrow s.p.a.ce, Like those beyond the bounds of time, Who darkened still, perceive no day, While seasons waste, and moons decay.

Cold as the shade that wraps them round, This icy region prompts our fear; And he who treads this frozen ground Shall curse the chance that brought him here-- The slippery ma.s.s predicts his fate, A broken arm, a wounded pate.

When August sheds his sultry beam, May Celia never find this place, Nor see, upon the clouded stream, The fading summer in her face; And may she ne'er discover there The grey that mingles with her hair.

The watchman sad, whose drowsy call Proclaims the hour forever fled, Avoids this path to Pluto's hall; For who would wish to wake the dead!-- Still let them sleep--it is no crime-- They pay no tax to know the time.

No coaches here, in glittering pride, Convey their freight to take the air, No G.o.ds nor heroes here reside, Nor powdered beau, nor lady fair-- All, all to warmer regions flee, And leave the glooms to Towne[A] and me.

[A] BENJAMIN TOWNE, then Printer of the EVENING POST.--_Freneau's note._

[300] _Freeman's Journal_, February 23, 1795.

ON THE DEATH OF THE REPUBLICAN PATRIOT AND STATESMAN, GENERAL JOSEPH REED[A]

[A] First published in the _Freeman's Journal_, March 9, 1785, with the following introduction:

"On Sat.u.r.day morning last [March 5] departed this life in the forty-third year of his age, GENERAL JOSEPH REED, Esq., formerly President of this State; and on Sunday his remains were interred in the Presbyterian burying ground in Arch Street. His funeral was attended by his excellency the President and the Superior Executive Council, the Honourable the Speaker and the General a.s.sembly, the Militia Officers and a greater number of citizens than we've ever seen here on any similar occasion." Text follows the edition of 1809.

Reed was one of the leading figures of the Revolutionary era.

As delegate to the Continental Congress, aide and secretary to Washington, Adjutant General, volunteer soldier, and Governor of Pennsylvania, he was an active and able man, and his early death was much regretted.

Soon to the grave[301] descends each honoured name That raised their country to this blaze[302] of fame: Sages, that planned, and chiefs that led the way To Freedom's temple, all too soon decay, Alike submit to one impartial[303] doom, Their glories closing in perpetual gloom, Like the pale[304] splendours of the evening, fade, While night advances, to complete the shade.

REED, 'tis for thee we shed the unpurchased tear, Bend o'er thy tomb, and plant our laurels there: Your acts, your life,[305] the n.o.blest pile transcend, And Virtue, patriot Virtue, mourns her friend, Gone to those realms, where worth may claim regard, And gone where virtue meets her best reward.

No single art engaged his vigorous[306] mind, In every scene his active genius shined: Nature in him, in honour to our age, At once composed the soldier and the sage-- Firm to his purpose, vigilant, and bold, Detesting traitors, and despising gold, He scorned all bribes from Britain's hostile throne For all his country's wrongs he held[307] his own.

REED, rest in peace: for time's impartial page Shall raise the blush on[308] this ungrateful age: Long in these climes thy name shall flourish fair, The statesman's pattern, and the poet's care; Long in these climes[309] thy memory shall remain, And still new tributes from new ages gain, Fair to the eye that injured honour rise-- Nor traitors triumph while the patriot dies.

The following are the variations in the 1786 edition:

[301] Swift to the dust.

[302] These heights.