"He that readeth not in the Book of Odes is like a man standing with his face against a wall; he can neither move a step forward, nor survey any object."--_Hau Kiou Choaan._ Blest is the man who shuns the place Where Demo's love to meet, Who scorns to gnaw their bread and cheese, And hates their small beer treat: But in the glare of splendid halls Doth place his whole delight, And there by day eats force-meat balls, And roasted hogs by night. He, like some thrifty pumpkin vine, Near Hartford that doth grow, Shall creep, and spread, and twist, and twine, And shade the weeds below. Puff'd by all dunces far and near He'll swell to station high, While Democrats confus'd appear As he rides rattling by. Not so the man of vulgar birth, And Democratic phiz; Want, toil, and every plague on earth, Shall certainly be his. Poor as a snake, and ever vile Shall his condition be, Who to the men of royal style Neglects to bend the knee. He, with the herd of little note, May starve on bread and cheese, And soon shall be without a coat Or sent to pay jail-fees. ODE II[132] TO THE FRIGATE CONSTITUTION "A ship carpenter being once asked, what sort of ships are the _safest_, he answered, _those which are hauled up on dry land_." Madam!--Stay where you are, 'Tis better, sure, by far Than venturing on an element of danger, Where heavy seas and stormy gales May wreck your hulk and rend your sails, Or Europe's black-guards treat you like a stranger, When first you stuck upon your ways (Where half New England came to gaze) We antifederals thought it something odd That where all art had been display'd, And even the builder deem'd a little god, He had your ways not better laid. Omens, indeed, are now exploded, But you have something dismal boded: Say--must the navy-system go to rack, And things advance at such a rate That every wisely govern'd state Will hold the author of the scheme a quack. O frigate Constitution! stay on shore: Why would you meet old Ocean's roar? Was man design'd To be confin'd In those fire-spitting hells a navy nam'd, Where Vice herself, abash'd, asham'd, Turns from the horrid scene of blood and bones, And mangled carcases of men; and grunts and groans. Remaining on the stocks, in gloomy pride, Without an anchor thou shalt safely ride; No pumping there, To make men swear, Waves you'll despise, Tho' fierce they rise To heaven when storms and tempests blow: Steady as fate, unmov'd will you appear When other ships the foaming surges tear-- No fear of broaching to.