The Poems of Philip Freneau, Poet of the American Revolution. Volume 3 (of 3)Freneau, Philip Morin
General
The Poems of Philip Freneau, Poet of the American Revolution. Volume 3 (of 3)
Freneau, Philip Morin
American poetry
"Thy followers, FOX, pacific in each aim,
In this far climate still revere your name;
To them long practice prudent foresight gave,
Proof to the projects of the keenest knave.
On things to come they fix an anxious eye
Fond to be thought the favourites of the sky,
Paths of their own they clear to future bliss,
Praise _other_ worlds but keep their hold on _this_.
Nor mean I, hence, to censure or condemn,
Perhaps 'twere best the world should think like them;--
What tho' on visions they may place their trust,
I hold their general principles are just,
_Good will to all, themselves their first great care,
Precise in dealing, foes to blood and war_;
Let kings invade, or potentates assault,
No aid they lend, for passive to a fault,
They still are found, all complaisant to power
To bow to ruffians in the trying hour."
[16] In the edition of 1795 this bore the title "Virginia. [A Fragment]"
[17] The original version in the _Daily Advertiser_, June 11, 1790,
added here these lines:
"Yet shall not malice rob them of their due,
Not all their worth is center'd in a few:
On Fame's bright lists their sages they enroll,
Theirs is the brave, and high aspiring soul,
Heroes and chiefs, the firm unconquer'd mind
That rul'd in councils, or in battles shin'd,
Sent traitorous bands new regions to explore
And drove their titled miscreant[a] from the shore."
[a] Lord Dunmore.--_Freneau's note._
[18] The original version added here the following:
"Rais'd by their care, _tobacco_ spreads its leaf,
The master's pleasure, and the labourer's grief;
Hence comes the lofty port, the haughty air,
The proud demeanour, and the brow severe."
[19] The original version added here the couplet:
"While the keen lash some little tyrant wields,
Foe to the free-born genius of the fields."
[20] The original version added here:
"Silent beholds (proud object of reproach)
His whole year's labour lost on Mammon's coach!"
[21] As originally printed in the _Daily Advertiser_ the poem ended as
follows:
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
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