A POETICAL EPISTLE TO HIS EXCELLENCY GEORGE WASHINGTON, Esquire, &c. &c. &c

While many a servile Muse her succour lends To flatter tyrants, or a tyrant's friends; While thousands slaughtered at Ambition's shrine Are made a plea to court the tuneful Nine: Whilst laureats lift their heroes to the sky, Foretel their conquests twice a year, and lie, Damn half starv'd rebels to eternal shame, Or paint them trembling at Britannia's name: Permit an humble bard, Great Chief, to raise One truth-erected trophy to thy praise: No flatt'ring colours shall these numbers seek, To tinge with blushes Virtue's modest cheek: Call forth to view no great or generous deed, But foes must own and Washington may read.

Say, where along yon venerable wood, My native stream swells thy Potomack's flood, Shall my untutor'd Muse begin the song, Which future bards in rapture shall prolong; Or there my little bark presume to fail, Fann'd by fair Liberty's inspiring gale? Fair Liberty, of man the noblest claim, Great source of bliss, kind nurse of arts and fame; She, wrong'd and exil'd from yon eastern climes, Perhaps may deign to listen to these rhymes: And in these regions pleas'd to find relief, May bear them smiling to her fav'rite chief: Illustrious Chief! whom with one common voice An injur'd people chose, and Heav'n approv'd the choice.

Forth from the bosom of thy calm retreat, At once the hero's and the sage's seat, Where bounteous Nature spreads her choicest gifts Of woods and lawns along thy native cliffs, Where, with the Graces, Wisdom chose to roam, Where sweet Simplicity had fix'd her home; Where wedded Love display'd his mildest ray, To gild each rising and each setting day, And with a smile could smooth the brow of Care, Save when thy country's cries alarm'd thy ear. Great Freedom call'd Thee to the glorious strife, The tranquil scenes of sweet domestic life Delight no more: to arms! to arms! she cries; To arms! to arms! each sister-state replies. Be Thou great guardian of thy country's cause, She said, and hosts of heroes shout applause.

Thus, when of old, from his paternal farm Rome bade her rigid Cincinnatus arm; Th' illustrious peasant rushes to the field, Soon are the haughty Volsii taught to yield: His country sav'd, the solemn triumph o'er, He tills his native acres as before.

Or, when Timoleon's god-like bosom glow'd To court true fame, and Virtue mark'd the road; Joyful she led him to Trinacria's shore, And kings and kinglings quickly were no more: Soon was the tyrant taught that power to own, That hurl'd him headlong from his guilty throne: Yet, tyrant-like, ambitious still to rule, He frown'd the petty monarch of a school; Whilst Thee, illustrious Chief, no titles grace, Save friend and guardian to the human race. Hail, happy man! crown'd with immortal bays, Before whose glory shrinks the dwindled rays Of royal pageantry! thy gen'rous heart To Freedom's sons shall still its warmth impart, Teach them their native dignity to scan, And scorn the wretch who spurns his fellow-man: And when in eastern climes, 'midst lawless sway, Thy same shall sink, and Freedom's wreaths decay, These infants states shall catch the god-like flame, And tyrants still shall shudder at thy name; Then nobly dare Columbia to be free, And what Timoleon was, thy Washington shall be.

What tho' proud Britain yet undrench'd with blood, Pour her destructive thousands o'er the flood, With hellish rage th' extremes of war pursue, Not conquest now, but mean revenge her view; What tho' to glut her unrelenting ire, Of German tyrants German slaves she hire, Teach them to riot in the lawless spoil. Which erst had made her own proud sons recoil, Rouse the grim savage to relentless war, And faintly tell his scalping arm to spare: What tho' fresh wreaths great vict'ry still must twine, To grace thy temples, Gates, or Lincoln thine: What tho' Herculean labours still remain, And all our battles must be fought again; Yet, if th' embattled field thy Genius guide, Or in the senate Wisdom still preside; Sooner shall you blue-mist-clad mountain dread The rattling storms that war around his head, Sooner shall night usurp the beam of day, Than Freedom crouch beneath Oppression's sway: Calm and serene she views the gath'ring storm, Sees her brave youth around thy standard swarm, Each bosom panting for the glorious wreath, Or, should they fall, each grasping it in death. Come then, ye minions of tyrannic sway, Strive who shall best its dire commands obey: Let other Falmouth's tell each future age, Of British fleets th' unprecedented rage, And from their ashes this great truth proclaim, "Destruction only is the tyrant's aim:" Once more, fierce Vaughan, lead forth thy savage band, And scatter desolation thro' the land; Once more let Hudson mourn his rifled plains, His ravish'd daughters and his murder'd swains: Or, if in Britons still such souls should dwell As to thy lot, inhuman Dunmore, fell: Ev'n thy Virginia, Washington, may view Her infants bleed, her Norfolks blaze anew; Besmear'd with gore fresh Butlers may arise, And with their scalp-clad brows insult the skies.

All this may be; the blood already spilt Fills not, alas! Britannia's cup of guilt; Fell disappointment still her arm may brace To wreak her vengeance by some fresh disgrace: Or, may not heav'n, yet eager to disclose Th' unconquer'd soul that in thy bosom glows, Dangers on dangers heap, new labours raise, Till in full lustre all thy virtues blaze; Till led by thee, the brave untutor'd band Chace hardy vet'rans from this injur'd land; Till haughty Clinton to thy standard bow, Or sink unnotic'd as a Gage or Howe, Till Britain, hapless Britain! curse the hour, When urg'd by pride and insolence of pow'r She, sternly deaf to ev'ry just petition, Thought with a frown to "look us to submission?" Alas, poor Britain! thus thy Sandwich spoke, And eager senates caught the fatal joke; Each pension'd scribbler draws his servile pen, And proves Americans are hardly men; Of knaves and dastards the contemptuous names Amuse the fawning circles at St. James, And with this pray'r each courtly pulpit rings, "Heav'n spare not rebels to the best of Kings!"

Such was thy folly, Britain! such thy fate! Thus sunk the proud and insolently great, Of heav'nly vengeance doom'd to feel the rod, Who dare deride great Nature and her God.

Far other thoughts, Columbia, be thy pride, Far other springs thy public councils guide: Thine be the god-like task, the glory thine, To kindle first, and spread the flames divine Of true benevolence; her gentle star Shall light the rescu'd millions from afar, Invite them sweetly on these plains to find The great asylum of oppress'd mankind; Then to their wond'ring eyes disclose the plan Where the poor slave shall read that he is man; Taste Freedom's charms more pure than Rome could boast, Or Albion, once her fav'rite isle, has lost.

Great without pomp, without ambition brave, Proud, not to conquer fellow-men, but save: Friend to the weak, a foe to none, but those Who plan their greatness on their brethren's woes; Aw'd by no titles, undefil'd by lust; Free without faction, obstinately just; Too wise to learn from Machiavel's false school, That truth and perfidy by turns should rule; Too rough for flatt'ry, dreading ev'n as death The baneful influence of Corruption's breath; Warm'd by Religion's sacred genuine ray, That points to future bliss th' unerring way; Yet ne'er controul'd by Superstition's laws, That worst of tyrants in the noblest cause; The world's great mart, yet not by gold defil'd, To mercy prone, in justice ever mild; Save to the man who strikes at Freedom's roots, And never curs'd with Mansf—ds, N—ths, or B—tes.

Such be my country; what her sons should be, O! may they learn, great Washington, from thee! Thy private virtues be their public rule, Thy public conduct be the Patriot's school! That living law, from whence her rising youth May gather wisdom, constancy, and truth, Of Independence catch the gen'rous flame, And learn to shudder at Oppression's name!

And when retiring late from earthly cares, Thy better part shall mount her native spheres, 'Midst Patriot chiefs to taste the pure delight Of ever having thought and acted right; Still, Phoenix-like, renew'd from age to age, Thy spotless same shall grace th' historic page, Or flow expanded down the stream of time, The darling subject of immortal rhyme; Such as rehears'd Pelides' fatal ire, Such as, great Milton, tun'd thy sacred lyre, Or that sweet bard's, who sung the man that bore "His course to Latium from the Trojan shore!"

Then Commerce here shall fix his chief abode, And thy Potomack heave beneath the load Of crowding fleets; each crew in grateful lays Thro' their rough throats shall pour their deathless praise; And, pointing to Mount Vernon, shall relate, "There once liv'd Washington the good, the great, "Whose arm preserv'd, whose wisdom guides the state. "Yon temple rising 'midst th' encirclihg grove "To Fame and Him, a grateful people's love "Rais'd in full jubilee: yon structure fair "Where Nature's God receives Religion's pray'r, "He rear'd a lasting monument to be "Of Heaven's best favours to the Good and Free. "There, on Columbia's future bliss and pow'r, "Oft wou'd he muse away the noon-tide hour; "Alone, in public, this his constant aim, "That her great cause and Nature's be the same: "That Wisdom triumph thro' her wide domain, "And Freedom fix her everlasting fane."