But why should I wander, and give him such pain? My Damon will ne'er see his Colin again: To wander so far where the wild Indians dwell, We should faint ere we came to the river Sorel. But even to see the pale corpse of my dear Would give me such rapture, such pleasure sincere! I'll go, my dear boy, and my grief I will tell To the willows that grow by the river Sorel. How shall I distinguish my shepherd's dear grave Amidst the long forest that darkens the wave:-- Perhaps they could give him no tomb when he fell; Perhaps he is sunk in the river Sorel. He was a dear fellow!--O, had he remain'd! For he was uneasy whene'er I complain'd; He call'd me his charmer, and call'd me his belle, What a folly to die on the banks of Sorel! Then let me remain in my lonely retreat; My shepherd departed I never shall meet-- Here's Billy O'Bluster--I love him as well, And Damon may stay at the river Sorel. [120] This poem is unique in the 1788 edition of Freneau's works. It is evidently an earlier version of the "Mars and Hymen" below. MARS AND HYMEN[121] Occasioned by the separation of a young widow from a young military lover, of the troops sent to attack Fort Chamblee, in Canada; in which expedition he lost his life [1775] _Persons of the Poem_--Lucinda, Damon, Thyrsis _Damon_ Why do we talk of shaded bowers, When frosts, my fair one, chill the plain, And nights are cold, and long the hours That damp the ardour of the swain, Who, parting from his rural fire, All pleasure doth forego-- And here and there, And everywhere, Pursues the invading foe. Yes, we must rest on frosts and snows! No season shuts up our campaign! Hard as the rocks, we dare oppose The autumnal, or the wintery reign. Alike to us, the winds that blow In summer's season, gay, Or those that rave On Hudson's wave, And drift his ice away. Winter and war may change the scene! The ball may pierce, the frost may chill; And dire misfortunes intervene, But freedom must be powerful still, To drive these Britons from our shore, Who come with sail, who come with oar, So cruel and unkind, With servile chain, who strive in vain, Our freeborn souls to bind. [_Exit_] _Lucinda_ (_two months after_) They scold me, and tell me I must not complain, To part a few weeks with my favourite swain! He goes to the battle!--and leaves me to mourn-- And tell me--and tell me--and will he return?[122] When he left me, he kiss'd me--and said, My sweet dear, In less than a month I again will be here; But still I can hardly my sorrows adjourn-- You may call me a witch--if ever I return.[123] I said, My dear soldier, I beg you would stay; But he, with his farmers,[124] went strutting away-- With anguish and sorrow my bosom did burn, And I wept--for I thought he would never return.[125] _Thyrsis_