An ELEGY, &c

Oh BOSTON! late with ev'ry pleasure crown'd, Where Commerce triumph'd on the fav'ring gales, And each pleas'd eye, that rov'd in prospect round, Hail'd thy bright spires and bless'd thy op'ning sails!

Thy plenteous marts with rich profusion smil'd; The gay throng crouded in thy spacious streets; From either Ind thy chearful stores were fill'd; Thy ports were gladden'd with unnumber'd fleets.

For there more fair than in their native vales, Tall groves of masts arose in beauteous pride; The waves were whiten'd by the swelling sails, And plenty wafted on the neighb'ring tide.

Alas, how chang'd! the swelling sails no more Catch the fair winds and wanton in the sky; But hostile beaks affright the guarded shore, And pointed thunders all access deny.

Where the bold Cape its warning forehead rears, Where tyrant Vengeance waved her magic wand, Far from the sight each friendly vessel veers, Calls the kind gales and flies the fatal strand.

The ruin'd Merchant turns his mournful eyes From the drear shore and desolated way; Thy silent marts unusual glooms surprize, And through thy streets the sons of rapine stray.

Such the dread stillness of the desart night, When brooding horror settles on the groves; While pow'rs of darkness claim their hateful right, And fierce for prey the savage tyger roves.

Along thy fields, which late in beauty shone With lowing herds and grassy vesture fair, Th' insulting tents of barb'rous troops are strown, And bloody standards stain the peaceful air.—

Are these thy deeds, oh Britain? this the praise, That points the growing lustre of thy name? These glorious works that in thy latter days, Gild the bright period of thine early fame?

Shall thy strong fleets, with awful sails unfurl'd, On Freedom's shrines th' unhallow'd vengeance bend? And leave forlorn the desolated world, Crush'd—ev'ry foe, and ruin'd—ev'ry friend!

And damp'd alas! thy soul-inspiring ray, Where Virtue prompted and where Genius soar'd, Or quench'd in darkness, and the gloomy sway Of Senates venal and the liv'ried Lord!

There shame sits blazon'd on th' unmeaning brow, And o'er the scene thy factious Nobles wait, Prompt the mixt tumult of the noisy show, Guide the blind vote and rule the mock debate.

To these how vain, in weary woes forlorn, With fearful hands the fond complaint, to raise, Lift fruitless off'rings to the ear of Scorn— Of servile vows and well-dissembled praise!

Will the grim savage of the nightly fold Learn from their cries the blameless flock to spare? Will the deaf gods, that frown in molten gold, Bless the dup'd hand, that spreads the prostrate prayer? With what pleas'd hope before the face of Pride, We rear'd our suppliant eyes with filial awe; While loud Disdain with ruffian voice reply'd, And Inj'ry triumph'd in the garb of Law!

While Peers enraptur'd hail th' unmanly wrong, See Ribaldry, vile prostitute of shame, Stretch the brib'd hand and prompt the venal tongue, To blast the laurels of a FRANKLIN'S fame!

But will the Sage, whose philosophic soul, Controul'd the lightning in its fierce career, Heard unappal'd th' aerial thunders roll, And taught the bolts of vengeance where to steer;—

Will he, while echoing to his just renown The voice of kingdoms swells the loud applause; Heed the weak malice of a Courtier's frown, Or dread the coward insolence of laws?

See envying Britain rends the sacred bays; Illuded Justice pens the mock decree; While Infamy her darling scrowl displays, And points well pleas'd, Oh Wedderburn, to thee!

For nought avail the virtues of the heart, The vengeful bolt no Muse's laurels ward; From Britain's rage, and death's relentless dart, No worth can save us, and no fame can guard.

O'er hallow'd bounds see dire Oppression roll; Fair Freedom buried in the whelming flood; Nor charter'd rights the tyrant course controul, Though seal'd by Kings and witness'd in our blood.

No more shall Justice with unbiass'd hand, From lawless Rapine snatch her trembling prey, While in her balance by supreme command Hang the dead weights of ministerial sway. (For taught by pain, our injur'd bosoms feel The potent claims whence all our woes began, And own supreme the power, that could repeal, Those laws of heav'n, that guard the rights of man.)

In vain we hope from Britain's haughty pride An hand to save us, or an heart to bless; 'Tis strength, our own, must stem the rushing tide, And our own virtue yield the wish'd success.

But, oh, my friends, the arm of blood restrain! (No rage intemp'rate aids the public weal) Nor basely blend (too daring, but in vain) Th' assassin's madness with the patriot's zeal.

Shall the fields blush, with vital crimson stain'd, When blind resentment marks the victim'd breast? Will reeking life, by vengeful hands prophan'd, Our wrongs relieve, or charm our woes to rest?

Ours be the manly firmness of the sage, From shameless foes th' ungrateful wounds to bear; Alike remov'd from baseness and from rage, The flames of faction, and the chills of fear.

Check the vast torrent of commercial gain, That buys our ruin at a price so rare; And while we scorn Britannia's servile chain, Disdain the liv'ry of her marts to wear.

For shall the lust of fashions and of show, The curst idolatry of silks and lace, Bid our proud robes insult our Country's woe, And welcome Slav'ry in the glare of dress?

Will the blind dupe, in liv'ried tinsel gay, Boast the shamed trappings, that adorn the slave? Will the fond mourner change his sad array, T' attend in gorgeous pomp a parent's grave?

No! the rich produce of our fertile soil, Shall cloath the neatness of our chearful train, While heav'n-born virtues bless the pious toil, And gild the humble vestures of the plain.

No foreign labour in the Asian field Shall weave her silks to deck the wanton age, But, as in Rome, the furrow'd vale shall yield Th' unvanquish'd Chieftain and paternal Sage.

And ye, whose heaven in ermin'd pomp to shine, To run with joy the vain, luxurious round, Bless the full banquet with the charms of wine, And roll the thundring chariot o'er the ground!

For this, while guis'd in sycophantic smile, With hearts all mindless of your country's pain, Your flatt'ring falshoods feed the ears of Guile, And barter freedom for the dreams of gain!

Are these the joys, on vassal'd climes that wait— In downs of ease luxuriant to repose, Quaff streams nectareous in the domes of state, And blaze in splendor of imperial shows?

No—the hard hand, the tortur'd brow of Care, The thatch-roof'd hamlet and defenceless shed, The tatter'd garb, that meets th' inclement air, The famish'd table, and the matted bed— These are their fate—In vain the arm of toil With gifts autumnal crowns the bearded plain; In vain glad Summer prompts the genial soil, And Spring dissolves in softening show'rs in vain;

There savage Pow'r extends his dismal shade, And chill Oppression, with her frosts severe, Sheds her dire blastings o'er the springing blade, And robs th' expecting labours of the year.

So must we sink?—and at the stern command That bears the terrors of a tyrant's word, Bend the crouch'd knee and raise the suppliant hand, The scorn'd, dependant vassals of a Lord?

The wintry ravage of the storm to meet, Brave the scorch'd vapours of th' autumnal air, Then pour the hard-earn'd harvest at his feet, And beg some pittance from our pains to share?

But not for this, by heav'n and virtue led, From the mad rule of hierarchal pride, From slavish chains our injur'd fathers fled, And follow'd freedom on th' advent'rous tide;

Dar'd the wild horrors of these climes unknown, Th' insidious savage, and the crimson'd plain, To us bequeath'd the prize, their woes had won, Nor deem'd they suffer'd, or they bled in vain.

And think'st thou, North, the sons of such a race, Where beams of glory blest their purpled morn, Will shrink unnerv'd before a tyrant's face, Nor meet thy louring insolence with scorn?

Look thro' the circuit of th' extended shore, That checks the surges of th' Atlantic deep! What weak eye trembles at the frowns of pow'r? What leaden soul invites the bands of sleep? How Goodness warms each heaven-illumin'd heart! What gen'rous gifts the woes of want assuage, And sympathetic tears of pity start, To aid the destin'd victims of thy rage!

No clam'rous faction with unhallow'd zeal To wayward madness wakes th' impassion'd throng; No thoughtless furies sheath their breasts with steel, Or call the sword t' avenge th' oppressive wrong.

Fraternal bands with vows accordant join; One guardian Genius, one enrapt'ring Soul Nerves the bold arm, inflames the just design, Combines, inspirits and illumes the whole,

Now meet the Fathers of this western clime; Nor names more noble graced the rolls of fame, When Spartan firmness brav'd the wrecks of time, Or Rome's bold virtues fann'd th' heroic flame.

Not deeper thought th' immortal Sage inspir'd, On Solon's lips when Grecian senates hung; Nor manlier eloquence the bosom fir'd, When genius thunder'd from th' Athenian tongue.

And hopes thy pride to match the patriot strain By the brib'd slave in pension'd lists enroll'd; Or awe their councils by the voice prophane, That wakes to utt'rance at the calls of gold?

Can frowns of terror daunt the warrior's deeds, Where guilt is stranger to th' ingenuous heart? Or Craft illude, where godlike Science sheds The beams of knowlege and the gifts of art?

Go, raise thy hand, and with its magic pow'r Pencil with night the sun's ascending ray, Bid the broad veil eclipse the noon-tide hour, And damps of stygian darkness shroud thy day.—

(Such night as lours o'er Britain's fated land, Where rayless shades the darken'd throne surround; Nor deeper glooms at Moses' waving wand, Pour'd their thick horrors o'er the Memphian ground.)

Bid heav'ns dread thunders at thy voice expire, Or chain the angry vengeance of the waves; Then hope thy breath can chill th' eternal fire, And free souls pinion with the bonds of slaves.

Thou canst not hope—Attend the flight of days, View the bold deeds, that wait the dawning age, Where Time's strong arm, that rules the mighty maze, Shifts the proud actors on this earthly stage!

Then tell us, North,—for thou art sure to know; For have not Kings and fortune made thee great? Or lurks not genius in th' ennobled brow, And dwells not wisdom in the robes of state?

Tell how the pow'rs of luxury and pride, Taint thy pure zephyrs with their poison'd breath; How dark Corruption spreads th' envenom'd tide, And Britain trembles on the verge of death.

And tell how, rapt by Freedom's deathless flame, And fost'ring influence of the fav'ring skies, This Western World, the last recess of fame, Sees in her wilds a new born Empire rise:

A new-born Empire, whose ascendant hour Defies the foes, that would its life destroy, And like Alcides, with its infant power Shall crush those serpents, who its rest annoy.

Then look thro' time, and with extended eye, Pierce the deep veil of fate's obscure domain! The morning dawns, th' effulgent star is nigh, And crimson'd glories deck her rising reign! Behold afar beneath the cloud of days, Where rest the wonders of ascending fame; What Heroes rise, immortal heirs of praise! What fields of death with conq'ring standards flame!

See her throng'd cities' warlike gates unfold! What tow'ring armies stretch their banners wide, Where cold Ontario's icy waves are roll'd, Or far Altama's silver waters glide!

Lo from the groves, th' aspiring cliffs that shade, Ascending pines the surging ocean brave, Rise in tall masts, the floating canvas spread, And rule the dread dominions of the wave!

Where her clear rivers pour the mazy tide, The laughing lawns in full luxuriance bloom, The golden harvest spreads her wanton pride, The flow'ry garden breathes a glad perfume.

Her potent voice shall hush the storms of fate, Where the meads blossom or the billows roar; And cities, gay with sumptuous domes of state, Stretch their bright turrets on the sounding shore.

There mark that Coast, which seats of wealth surround, That haven, rich with many a flowing sail, Where mighty ships, from earth's remotest bound, Float on the chearly pinions of the gale.

There BOSTON smiles, no more the sport of scorn, And meanly prison'd by thy fleets no more; And far as ocean's billowy tides are borne, Lifts her fear'd ensigns of imperial power.

So smile the shores, where lordly Hudson strays, (Whose floods fair York and proud Albania lave) Or Philadelphia's happier clime surveys Her glist'ring spires in Schulkyll's lucid wave. Or southward far extend thy wond'ring eyes, Where fertile streams the garden'd vales divide; And mid the peopled fields distinguish'd rise Virginian tow'rs, and Charlestown's spiry pride.

Genius of arts, of manners and of arms, See deck'd with glory and the blooms of grace, This Virgin-clime unfolds her brighter charms, And gives her beauties to thy fond embrace!

Hark, from the glades, and ev'ry list'ning spray, What heav'n-born Muses wake th' enraptur'd song! The vocal shades attune th' enchanting lay, And echoing vales harmonious strains prolong.

Thro' the vast series of descending years, That lose their currents in th' eternal wave, Till heav'n's last trump shall rend th' affrighted spheres, And ope each empire's everlasting grave;

Propitious skies the joyous field shall crown, And robe her vallies in perpetual prime, And ages blest of undisturb'd renown, Beam their mild radiance o'er th' imperial clime.—

And where is Britain?—In the skirt of day, Where stormy Neptune rolls his utmost tide, Where suns oblique diffuse a feeble ray, And lonely waves the fated coasts divide;

Seest thou yon Isle, whose desart landscape yields The mournful traces of the fame she bore; Where matted thorns oppress the cultur'd fields, And piles of ruin choak the dreary shore?—

From those lov'd seats, the Virtues sad withdrew, From fell Corruption's bold and venal hand; Reluctant Freedom wav'd her last adieu, And Devastation swept the vassal'd land. On her white cliffs, the pillars once of fame, Her melancholy Genius sits to wail; Drops the fond tear, and o'er her latest shame, Bids dark Oblivion draw her sable veil.