Mere structures formed of common earth, Not they from heaven derive their birth, Or why through life, like vagrants, pass To mingle with the mouldering mass?-- Of all the souls, from Jove that came To animate this mortal frame, Of all the myriads, on the wing, How few can taste the Muse's spring! Sejanus, of mercantile skill, Without whose aid the world stands still, And by whose wonder-working play The sun goes round--(his flatterers say) Sejanus has in house declared "These States, as yet, can boast no bard, And all the sing-song of our clime Is merely nonsense, fringed with rhyme." With such a bold, conceited air When such assume the critic's chair, Low in the dust is genius laid, The muses with the man in trade. Then, Sylvius, come--let you and I On Neptune's aid, once more rely: Perhaps the muse may still impart Her balm to ease the aching heart. Though cold might chill and storms dismay, Yet Zoilus will be far away: With us at least, depart and share No garret--but resentment there. [314] On Nov. 24, 1785, Freneau sailed from Middletown Point as Master of the sloop _Monmouth_ bound for southern ports. This lyric, first published in the edition of 1788, seems to have been his valedictory to the muse for a season. His conflict with Oswald and other critics had much embittered him. The text is from the edition of 1809. THE DEPARTURE[315] 1785 From Hudson's cold, congealing streams As winter comes, I take my way Where other suns prompt other dreams, And shades, less willing to decay, Beget new raptures in the heart, Bid spleen's dejective crew depart, And wake the sprightly lay. Good-natur'd Neptune, now so mild, Like rage asleep, or madness chain'd, By dreams amus'd or love beguil'd, Sleep on 'till we our port have gain'd. The gentle breeze that curls the deep, Shall paint a finer dream on sleep!-- Ye nymphs, that haunt his grottoes low, Where sea green trees on coral grow, No tumults make Lest he should wake, And thus the passing shade betray The sails that o'er his waters stray. Sunk is the sun from yonder hill, The noisy day is past; The breeze decays, and all is still, As all shall be at last; The murmuring on the distant shore, The dying wave is all I hear, The yellow fields now disappear, No painted butterflies are near, And laughing folly plagues no more. The woods that deck yon' fading waste, That every wanton gale embrac'd, Ere summer yet made haste to fly; How smit with frost the pride of June! How lost to me! how very soon The fairy prospects die! Condemn'd to bend to winter's stroke, Low in the dust the embowering oak Has bid the fading leaf descend, Their short liv'd verdure at an end; How desolate the forests seem, Beneath whose shade The enamour'd maid Was once so fond to dream.