THE WILD HONEY SUCKLE[320]

Fair flower, that dost so comely grow, Hid in this silent, dull retreat, Untouched thy honied blossoms blow, Unseen thy little branches greet: No roving foot shall crush thee here, No busy hand provoke a tear.

By Nature's self in white arrayed, She bade thee shun the vulgar eye, And planted here the guardian shade, And sent soft waters murmuring by; Thus quietly thy summer goes, Thy days declining to repose.

Smit with those charms, that must decay, I grieve to see your future doom; They died--nor were those flowers more gay, The flowers that did in Eden bloom; Unpitying frosts, and Autumn's power Shall leave no vestige of this flower.

From morning suns and evening dews At first thy little being came: If nothing once, you nothing lose, For when you die you are the same; The s.p.a.ce between, is but an hour, The frail duration of a flower.

[320] Freneau doubtless wrote this poem in Charleston, S. C., in July, 1786. It appeared first in the _Freeman's Journal_, August 2, 1786, and was republished in the edition of 1788, and in the later editions, almost without change. The poet probably refers to the _Rhododendron Viscosum_, or as some call it the _Asalia viscosun_ since it is the only flower popularly known as the wild honeysuckle that is both white and fragrant. According to Chapman's _Southern Flora_, it flowers in the lat.i.tude of Charleston in July and August. The text is from the edition of 1809.

ON A BOOK CALLED UNITARIAN THEOLOGY[321]

In this choice work, with wisdom penned, we find The n.o.blest system to reform mankind, Bold truths confirmed, that bigots have denied, By most perverted, and which some deride.

Here, truths divine in easy language flow, Truths long concealed, that now all climes shall know Here, like the blaze of our material sun, Enlightened Reason proves, that G.o.d is One-- As that, concentered in itself, a sphere, Illumes all Nature with its radiance here, Bids towards itself all trees and plants aspire, Awakes the winds, impels the seeds of fire, And still subservient to the Almighty plan, Warms into life the changeful race of man; So--like that sun--in heaven's bright realms we trace One Power of Love, that fills unbounded s.p.a.ce, Existing always by no borrowed aid, Before all worlds--eternal, and not made-- To That indebted, stars and comets burn, Owe their swift movements, and to That return!

Prime source of wisdom, all-contriving mind, First spring of Reason, that this globe designed; Parent of order, whose unwearied hand Upholds the fabric that his wisdom planned, And, its due course a.s.signed to every sphere, Revolves the seasons, and sustains the year!-- Pure light of Truth! where'er thy splendours shine, Thou art the image of the power divine; Nought else, in life, that full resemblance bears, No sun, that lights us through our circling years, No stars, that through yon' charming azure stray, No moon, that glads us with her evening ray, No seas, that o'er their gloomy caverns flow, No forms beyond us, and no shapes below!

Then slight--ah slight not, this instructive page, For the mean follies of a dreaming age: Here to the truth, by Reason's aid aspire, Nor some dull preacher of romance admire; See One, Sole G.o.d, in these convincing lines, Beneath whose view perpetual day-light shines; At whose command all worlds their circuits run, And night, retiring, dies before the sun!

Here, Man no more disgraced by Time appears, Lost in dull slumbers through ten thousand years; Plunged in that gulph, whose dark unfathomed wave Men of all ages to perdition gave; An empty dream, or still more empty shade, The substance vanished, and the form decayed:-- Here Reason proves, that when this life decays, Instant, new life in the warm bosom plays, As that expiring, still its course repairs Through endless ages, and unceasing years.

Where parted souls with kindred spirits meet, Wrapt to the bloom of beauty all complete; In that celestial, vast, unclouded sphere, Nought there exists but has its image here!

All there is Mind!--That Intellectual Flame, From whose vast stores all human genius came, In which all Nature forms on Reason's plan-- Flows to this abject world, and beams on Man!

[321] This was published in the _Freeman's Journal_, Oct 4, 1786, under the t.i.tle "On the Honourable Emanuel Swedenborg's Universal Theology." A column advertis.e.m.e.nt of the book appeared in the _Journal_ Oct. 25. The poem was reprinted in the 1788 collection and in the later edition of 1809, which the text follows.

TO ZOILUS[322]

[A Severe Critic]

Six sheets compos'd, struck off, and dry The work may please the world (thought I)-- If some impell'd by spleen or spite, Refuse to read, then let them write: I too, with them, shall have my turn, And give advice--to tear or burn.

Now from the binder's, hurried home, In neat array my leaves are come: Alas, alas! is this my all?

The volume is so light and small, That, aim to save it as I can, 'Twill fly before Myrtilla's fan.

Why did I no precautions use?

To curb these frolics of the Muse?

Ah! why did I invoke the nine To aid these humble toils of mine-- That now forebode through every page The witling's sneer, the critic's rage.

Did I, for this, so often rise Before the sun illum'd the skies, And near my Hudson's mountain stream Invoke the Muses' morning dream, And scorn the winds that blew so cool!

I did--and I was more the fool.

Yet slender tho' the book, and small, And harmless, take it all in all, I see a monstrous wight appear, A quill suspended from his ear; Its fate depends on his decree, And what he says must sacred be!

A brute of such terrific mien At wild Sanduski ne'er was seen, And in the dark Kentuckey groves No beast, like this, for plunder roves, Nor dwells in Britain's lowering clime A reptile, so severe on rhyme.

The monster comes, severe and slow, His eyes with arrowy lightnings glow, Takes up the book, surveys it o'er, Exclaims, "d.a.m.n'd stuff!"--but says no more: The book is d.a.m.n'd by his decree, And what he says must gospel be!

But was there nothing to his taste?-- Was all my work a barren waste-- Was not one bright idea sown, And not one image of my own?-- Its doom was just, if this be true: But Zoilus shall be sweated too.

Give me a cane of mighty length, A staff proportion'd to my strength, Like that, by whose destructive aid The man of Gath his conquests made; Like that, which once on Etna's sh.o.r.e The shepherd of the mountain bore:

For wit traduc'd at such a rate To other worlds I'll send him, straight, Where all the past shall nothing seem, Or just be imag'd, like a dream; Where new vexations are design'd, No dull quietus for the mind!

Arm'd with a staff of such a size Who would not smite this man of lies: Here, scribbler, help me! seize that pen With which he blasts all rhyming men: His goose-quill must not with him go To persecute the bards below.--

How vast a change an hour may bring!

How abject lies this snarling thing!

No longer wit to him shall bow, To him the world is nothing now; And all he writ, and all he read Is, with himself, in silence laid!

Dead tho' he be--(not sent to rest) No keen remorse torments my breast: Yet, something in me seems to tell I might have let him live, as well;-- 'Twas his to snarl, and growl, and grin, And life had, else, a burthen been.

[322] This was first published in the _Freeman's Journal_, Oct 11, 1786, though it undoubtedly was written before the poet left Philadelphia. It was republished in the 1788 edition under the t.i.tle "The Pamphleteer and the Critic." The text follows the 1795 edition.

ON THE LEGISLATURE OF GREAT-BRITAIN PROHIBITING THE SALE, IN LONDON, OF

Doctor David Ramsay's History of the Revolutionary war in South Carolina[323]

Some bold bully Dawson, expert in abusing, Having pa.s.sed all his life in the practice of bruising; At last, when he thinks to reform and repent, And wishes his days had been soberly spent, Though a course of contrition in earnest begins, He scarcely can bear to be told of his sins.

So the British, worn out with their wars in the west (Where burning and murder their prowess confessed) When, at last, they agreed 'twas in vain to contend (For the days of their thieving were come to an end) They hired some historians to scribble and flatter, And foolishly thought they could hush up the matter.

But Ramsay[324] arose, and with Truth on his side, Has told to the world what they laboured to hide; With his pen of dissection, and pointed with steel, If they ne'er before felt he has taught them to feel, Themselves and their projects has truly defined, And dragged them to blush at the bar of mankind.

As the author, his friends, and the world might expect, They find that the work has a d.a.m.ning effect-- In reply to his Facts they abuse him and rail, And prompted by malice, prohibit the sale.

But, we trust, their chastis.e.m.e.nt is only begun; Thirteen are the States--and he writes but of one; Ere the twelve that are silent their story have told, The king will run mad, and the book will be sold.

[323] _Freeman's Journal_, Oct. 11, dated Philadelphia, Oct. 9. The text follows the edition of 1809.

[324] David Ramsay's "History of the Revolution in South Carolina," was published at Trenton, New Jersey, in 1785.

THE DEATH SONG OF A CHEROKEE INDIAN[325]