What Plato saw, in ages fled, What Solon to the Athenians said, What fired the British Sydney's page, The Solon of a modern age, Is now unfolding to our view; A system liberal, great, and new, Which from a long experience springs And bodes a better course of things. And will these States, whose beam ascends, On whose resolve so much depends; Will these, whose Washington, or Greene, Gave motion to the vast machine; Will these be torpid, careless found To help the mighty wheel go round; These, who began the immortal strife, And liberty preferr'd to life. If not the cause of France we aid Yet never should the word be said That we, to royal patrons prone, Made not the cause of man our own. Could Britain here renew her sway, And we a servile homage pay, The coming age, too proud to yield, Would drive her myriads from the field. Time will mature the mighty scheme, We build on no platonic dream; The light of truth shall shine again, And save the democratic reign. [165] From the 1815 edition. An embassy, headed by Chief Justice Ellsworth, had been appointed by Adams early in 1799 for the purpose of negotiating a treaty with France, but owing to diplomatic tangles it did not depart until late in the year. STANZAS TO AN ALIEN[166] Who after a Series of Persecutions emigrated to the Southwestern Country.--1799 Remote, beneath a sultry star, Where Mississippi flows afar, I see you rambling, God knows where. Sometimes, beneath a cypress bough, When met in dreams, with spirits low, I long to tell you what I know. How matters go, in this our day, When monarchy renews her sway, And royalty begins her play. I thought you wrong to come so far Till you had seen our western star Above the mists ascended clear. I thought you right, to speed your sails If you were fond of loathsome jails, And justice with uneven scales. And so you came and spoke too free And soon they made you bend the knee, And lodged you under lock and key. Discharged at last, you made your peace With all you had, and left the place With empty purse and meagre face.-- You sped your way to other climes And left me here to teaze with rhymes The worst of men in worst of times. Where you are gone the soil is free And freedom sings from every tree, "Come quit the crowd and live with me!" Where I must stay, no joys are found; Excisemen haunt the hateful ground, And chains are forged for all around. The scheming men, with brazen throat, Would set a murdering tribe afloat To hang you for the lines you wrote. If you are safe beyond their rage Thank heaven, and not our ruling sage, Who shops us up in jail and cage. Perdition seize that odious race Who, aiming at distinguish'd place, Would life and liberty efface; With iron rod would rule the ball And, at their shrine, debase us all, Bid devils rise and angels fall.