[212] "The American Village," Freneau's first distinct poetical publication, was for many years known only from his description of it in a letter to Madison (see Vol. I, page xxii, _supra_). It was supposed to have been lost, until a copy was discovered in a volume of miscellaneous pamphlets which had been purchased by the Library of Congress in November, 1902. A second copy, still more recently discovered, is now in the John Carter Brown Library at Brown University. I have reproduced the entire text of this little volume with the original punctuation and spelling, using however the modern form of the "s", and correcting the _errata_ noted by the author. THE FARMER'S WINTER EVENING A POEM _To the_ NYMPH _I never saw_. FAR be the pleasures of the day, And mirth and festive joy from me, When cold December nips the plains, Or frozen January reigns. Far he the hunts-man's noisy horn, And coursers fleet thro' thickets borne, Swift as the wind, and far the sight, Of snowy mountains, sadly white; But thou, O night, with sober charms, Shall clasp me in thy sable arms. For thee I love the winter eve, The noisy day for thee I leave. Beneath some mountain's tow'ring height, In cottage low I hail the night, Where jovial swains, with heart sincere, And timely mirth dishearten care: Each tells his tale, or chaunts a song Of her for whom he sigh'd so long; Of CLARA fair, or FLORA coy, Disdaining still her shepherd boy, While near the hoary headed sage, Recalls the days of youthful age, Describes his course of manly years, His journey thro' this vale of tears; How champion he with champions met, And fiercely did they combat it, 'Till envious night in ebon chair, Urg'd faster on her chariotteer, And robb'd him, O for shame, of glory And feats fit for renown in story.-- Thus spent in tales the ev'ning hour, And quaffing juice of sober pow'r, Which handsome KATE with malt did steep, To lead on balmy visag'd sleep, While her neat hand the milk pail strains, A sav'ry supper for the swains. And now the moon exalted high, Gives lustre to the earth and sky, And from the mighty ocean's glass, Reflects the beauty of her face: About her orb you may behold, A thousand stars of burnish'd gold, Which slowly to the west retire, And lose awhile their glitt'ring fire.