Choice Specimens of American Literature, and Literary Reader · Chapter 246Poets
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=Francis Hopkinson,[75] 1737-1791.=
From "The Battle of the Kegs.[76]"
=316.=
Gallants, attend, and hear a friend Trill forth harmonious ditty; Strange things I'll tell, which late befell In Philadelphia city.
'Twas early day, as poets say, Just when the sun was rising, A soldier stood on a log of wood, And saw a thing surprising.
As in amaze he stood to gaze,— The truth can't be denied, sir,— He spied a score of kegs, or more, Come floating down the tide, sir.
A sailor, too, in jerkin blue, This strange appearance viewing, First rubbed his eyes, in great surprise, Then said some mischief's brewing.
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Some fire cried, which some denied, But said the earth had quakéd; And girls and boys, with hideous noise, Ran through the streets half naked.
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The royal band now ready stand, All ranged in dread array, sir, With stomach stout, to see it out, And make a bloody day, sir.
The cannons roar from shore to shore; The small arms make a rattle; Since wars began, I'm sure no man E'er saw so strange a battle.
A hundred men, with each a pen, Or more,—upon my word, sir, It is most true,—would be too few Their valor to record, sir.
[Footnote 75: A prominent author of the revolutionary era.]
[Footnote 76: In the revolutionary war, while the British held Philadelphia, some floating torpedoes were one day sent down the river to destroy their vessels, and this novel mode of attack caused the alarm described by the poet.]
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=John Trumbull, 1750-1831.= (Manual, pp. 490, 512.)
From "McFingal."
=317.=
Though this, not all his time was lost on, He fortified the town of Boston, Built breastworks that might lend assistance To keep the patriots at a distance; For, howsoe'er the rogues might scoff, He liked them best the farthest off; Works of important use to aid His courage when he felt afraid.
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For Providence, disposed to tease us, Can use what instruments it pleases; To pay a tax, at Peter's wish, His chief cashier was once a fish.
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An English bishop's cur of late Disclosed rebellions 'gainst the State; So frogs croaked Pharaoh to repentance, And lice delayed the fatal sentence: And Heaven can rain you at pleasure, By Gage, as soon as by a Caesar. Yet did our hero in these days Pick up some laurel-wreaths of praise; And as the statuary of Seville Made his cracked saint an excellent devil. So, though our war small triumph brings, We gained great fame in other things. Did not our troops show great discerning, And skill, your various arts in learning? Outwent they not each native noodle By far, in playing Yankee-doodle? Which, as 'twas your New England tune, 'Twas marvellous they took so soon. And ere the year was fully through, Did they not learn to foot it too, And such a dance as ne'er was known For twenty miles on end lead down? Did they not lay their heads together, And gain your art to tar and feather, When Colonel Nesbitt, thro' the town, In triumph bore the country-clown? Oh! what a glorious work to sing The veteran troops of Britain's king, Adventuring for th'heroic laurel With bag of feathers and tar-barrel! To paint the cart where culprits ride, And Nesbitt marching at its side. Great executioner and proud, Like hangman high, on Holborn road; And o'er the slow-drawn rumbling car, The waving ensigns of the war!
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=Philip Freneau, 1752-1832.= (Manual, pp. 486, 511.)
From "An Indian Burying-ground."
=318.=
In spite of all the learned have said, I still my old opinion keep; The posture that we give the dead, Points out the soul's eternal sleep.
Not so the ancients of these lands;— The Indian, when from life released, Again is seated with his friends, And shares again the joyous feast.
His imaged birds, and painted bowl, And venison, for a journey dressed, Bespeak the nature of the soul,— Activity, that wants no rest.
His bow, for action ready bent, And arrows, with a head of bone, Can only mean that life is spent, And not the finer essence gone.
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Here still a lofty rock remains, On which the curious eye may trace, Now wasted half by wearing rains, The fancies of a ruder race.
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By midnight moons, o'er moistening dews, In vestments for the chase arrayed. The hunter still the deer pursues, The hunter and the deer—a shade.
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=David Humphreys, 1783-1818.= (Manual, p. 512.)
From "The Happiness of America."