PHILIP FRENEAU

[While the names of most eighteenth-century American verse-writers have passed into obscurity, if not into oblivion, the fame of Philip Freneau has increased, until he now takes almost unquestioned rank as the most notable American poet before Bryant. He was born in 1752, in New York City. In 1771 he was graduated from Princeton in the same class as James Madison and H. H. Brackenridge. As an undergraduate he made satiric and other rhymes, and collaborated with Brackenridge on a novel; and he was part author of a poem, "The Rising Glory of America," spoken by BrackenAfter his graduation he taught school for a time. ridge at commencement. Early in 1775 he wrote a number of bitter satires on political topics. From the latter part of 1775 to 1778 he was in the West Indies, and it was apparently on his outward voyage that he first felt the charm of the sailor's life. In 1780 he During much of the time from 1778 to 1790 he was on the ocean. was on board a vessel that was captured by the British, and he was imprisoned for some time in the notorious British prison ships in New York harbor. His experiences here form the basis of one of his most vindictive poems. After his release he was for some time master of a vessel engaged in the coasting trade. During all this time he was writing, and contributing to various journals. In 1790 he married, and left the sea to become editor of a paper in New York. The next year he removed to Philadelphia to accept from Jefferson the clerkship for foreign languages in the department of state, and to begin the issue of The National Gazette. This paper was violently republican and pro-French, and the Federalists accused Jefferson of retaining Freneau in a government position and inciting him to make unwarranted attacks on other members of the government. It does not appear that these charges were true, but Freneau was foolishly indiscreet, and he was forced to abandon the Gazette in 1793. After this he edited other papers for short periods of time, went to sea again, and reprinted some of his writings. He died in 1832.

Freneau was a voluminous writer. The latest collection of his poetical works fills three large volumes, and the editor gives more than a hundred titles of omitted poems. His political satires were popular at a time when feeling was intense, and for many years they were the portion of his writings most readily accessible to students. For this reason he gained the designation, unfortunately perpetuated by his latest editor, of "Poet of the American Revolution." It is really not, however, the political poems that have led to the recent recognition of Freneau's worth. He combined, somewhat strangely, a capacity for the most bitter, violent, and unreasoning hatred,

a vivid poetic imagination, and a genuine feeling for nature. His political pieces are mostly the sort of satire that abounds in invective, and that is unrelieved by humor. Some of his earlier work, especially "The House of Night," written during his first visit to the West Indies, reveals his powers of imagination; and some poems of later date, such as "The Wild Honey Suckle" and "The Indian Burying Ground," show an admirable delicacy and lightness of touch. It is by these, and not by his tirades against the British, that he should be judged.

With the revival of interest in Freneau's work has come, naturally, a tendency to overpraise. He was not a great, or a highly original, poet. All his better work shows obvious influences of his English masters, prominent among whom were Milton and Gray. It is not especially significant that Campbell and Scott each borrowed a good line from his works. It is notable, however, that in the most troubled time in American history he wrote some poems that were full of quiet idealism, and that he showed the romantic tendency at least as strongly as any of his English contemporaries.

Freneau published collections of his poems in 1786, 1788, 1795, 1809, and 1815, besides many single poems in pamphlets and broadsides. A collection of "Poems relating to the American Revolution" was edited by Evert A. Duyckinck in 1865. The selections here given are from the only adequate edition of his poems, that prepared by Professor Fred Lewis Pattee and issued in three volumes at Princeton in 1902-1907.]

A DREAM-PICTURE

[From "The House of Night"]

By some sad means, when Reason holds no sway,
Lonely I rov'd at midnight o'er a plain

Where murmuring streams and mingling rivers flow
Far to their springs, or seek the sea again.

Sweet vernal May! tho' then thy woods in bloom
Flourish'd, yet nought of this could Fancy see,
No wild pinks bless'd the meads, no green the fields,
And naked seem'd to stand each lifeless tree:

Dark was the sky, and not one friendly star
Shone from the zenith or horizon, clear,
Mist sate upon the woods, and darkness rode
In her black chariot, with a wild career.

And from the woods the late resounding note
Issued of the loquacious Whip-poor-will,1
Hoarse, howling dogs, and nightly roving wolves
Clamour'd from far off cliffs invisible.

Rude, from the wide extended Chesapeke
I heard the winds the dashing waves assail,
And saw from far, by picturing fancy form'd,
The black ship travelling through the noisy gale.

At last, by chance and guardian fancy led,
I reach'd a noble dome, rais'd fair and high,
And saw the light from upper windows flame,
Presage of mirth and hospitality.

And by that light around the dome appear'd
A mournful garden of autumnal hue,
Its lately pleasing flowers all drooping stood
Amidst high weeds that in rank plenty grew.

The Primrose there, the violet darkly blue,
Daisies and fair Narcissus ceas'd to rise,
Gay spotted pinks their charming bloom withdrew,
And Polyanthus quench'd its thousand dyes.

No pleasant fruit or blossom gaily smil'd,
Nought but unhappy plants or trees were seen,
The yew, the myrtle, and the church-yard elm,
The cypress, with its melancholy green.

There cedars dark, the osier, and the pine,
Shorn Tamarisks, and weeping willows grew,
The poplar tall, the lotos, and the lime,
And pyracantha did her leaves renew.

1 A bird peculiar to America, of a solitary nature, who never sings but in the night. Her note resembles the name given to her by the country people.

The poppy there, companion to repose,
Display'd her blossoms that began to fall,
And here the purple amaranthus rose
With mint strong-scented, for the funeral.

And here and there with laurel shrubs between
A tombstone lay, inscrib'd with strains of woe,
And stanzas sad, throughout the dismal green,
Lamented for the dead that slept below.

THE CAPTAIN OF THE HOSPITAL SHIP

[From "The British Prison Ship"]

From this poor vessel, and her sickly crew
An English ruffian all his titles drew,

Captain, esquire, commander, too, in chief,
And hence he gain'd his bread, and hence his beef,
But, sir, you might have search'd creation round
Ere such another miscreant could be found -
Though unprovok'd, an angry face he bore,
We stood astonish'd at the oaths he swore;
He swore, till every prisoner stood aghast,
And thought him Satan in a brimstone blast;
He wish'd us banish'd from the public light,
He wish'd us shrouded in perpetual night!
That were he king, no mercy would he show,
But drive all rebels to the world below;
That if we scoundrels did not scrub the decks
His staff should break our damn'd rebellious necks;
He swore, besides, that if the ship took fire

We too should in the pitchy flames expire;
And meant it so this tyrant, I

engage,
Had lost his breath to gratify his rage. -
If where he walk'd a captive carcase lay,
Still dreadful was the language of the day-
He call'd us dogs, and would have us'd us so,
But vengeance check'd the meditated blow,

The vengeance from our injur'd nation due
To him, and all the base, unmanly crew.

Such food they sent, to make complete our woes, It look'd like carrion torn from hungry crows, Such vermin vile on every joint were seen, So black, corrupted, mortified, and lean That once we try'd to move our flinty chief, And thus address'd him, holding up the beef: "See, captain, see! what rotten bones we pick, "What kills the healthy cannot cure the sick: "Not dogs on such by Christian men are fed, "And see, good master, see, what lousy bread!"

"Your meat or bread (this man of flint replied) "Is not my care to manage or provide

"But this, damn'd rebel dogs, I'd have you know, "That better than you merit we bestow; "Out of my sight!" - nor more he deign'd to say, But whisk'd about, and frowning, strode away.

THE CHARACTER OF CORNWALLIS [From a poem "On the Fall of General Earl Cornwallis"] A Chieftain join'd with Howe, Burgoyne, and Gage, Once more, nor this the last, provokes my rageWho saw these Nimrods first for conquest burn! Who has not seen them to the dust return? This ruffian next, who scour'd our ravag'd fields, Foe to the human race, Cornwallis yields! None e'er before essay'd such desperate crimes, Alone he stood, arch-butcher of the times, Rov'd uncontroul'd this wasted country o'er,

Strew'd plains with dead, and bath'd his jaws with gore. "Twas thus the wolf, who sought by night his prey,

And plunder'd all he met with on his way,

Stole what he could, and murder'd as he pass'd,
Chanc'd on a trap, and lost his head at last.

What pen can write, what human tongue can tell
The endless murders of this man of hell!