Philip Freneau
Ode
GOD save the Rights of Man! Give us a heart to scan Blessings so dear: Let them be spread around Wherever man is found, And with the welcome sound Ravish his ear. Let us
On The Death Of Dr. Benjamin Franklin
Thus, some tall tree that long hath stood The glory of its native wood, By storms destroyed, or length of years, Demands the tribute of our tears. The pile, that took long time to
The Vernal Age
WHERE the pheasant roosts at night, Lonely, drowsy, out of sight, Where the evening breezes sigh Solitary, there stray I. Close along the shaded stream, Source of many a youthful dream, Where branchy cedars
On the Ruins of a Country Inn
WHERE now these mingled ruins lie A temple once to Bacchus rose, Beneath whose roof, aspiring high, Full many a guest forgot his woes. No more this dome, by tempests torn, Affords a social
On a Honey Bee
Thou born to sip the lake or spring, Or quaff the waters of the stream, Why hither come on vagrant wing? Does Bacchus tempting seem Did he, for you, the glass prepare? Will I
The Indian Burying Ground
In spite of all the learn’d have said; I still my old opinion keep, The posture, that we give the dead, Points out the soul’s eternal sleep. Not so the ancients of these lands
On the Universality and Other Attributes of the God of Nature
ALL that we see, about, abroad, What is it all, but nature’s God? In meaner works discovered here No less than in the starry sphere. In seas, on earth, this God is seen; All
To the Memory of the Brave Americans
Under General Greene, in South Carolina, who fell in the action of September 8, 1781 AT Eutaw Springs the valiant died; Their limbs with dust are covered o’er Weep on, ye springs, your tearful
The Wild Honey-Suckle
Fair flower, that dost so comely grow, Hid in this silent, dull retreat, Untouched thy honied blossoms blow, Unseen thy little branches greet; …No roving foot shall crush thee here, …No busy hand provoke
To A New England Poet
Though skilled in Latin and in Greek, And earning fifty cents a week, Such knowledge, and the income, too, Should teach you better what to do: The meanest drudges, kept in pay, Can pocket
Song of Thyrsis
THE turtle on yon withered bough, That lately mourned her murdered mate, Has found another comrade now Such changes all await! Again her drooping plume is drest, Again she’s willing to be blest And
To Mr. Blanchard, the Celebrated Aeronaut in America
Nil mortalibus ardui est Caelum ipsum petimus stultitia Horace FROM Persian looms the silk he wove No Weaver meant should trail above The surface of the earth we tread, To deck the matron or
The Republican Genius of Europe
Emporers and kings! in vain you strive Your torments to conceal The age is come that shakes your thrones, Tramples in dust despotic crowns, And bids the sceptre fail. In western worlds the flame
On Retirement
A HERMIT’S house beside a stream With forests planted round, Whatever it to you may seem More real happiness I deem Than if I were a monarch crowned. A cottage I could call my