The Penguin Book of American Verse
Page 6
their Robes, and tear their hair:
They do not spare their flesh to tear
[Mat. 24:30]
through horrible despair.
All Kindreds wail: all hearts do fail:
horror the world doth fill
With weeping eyes, and loud out-cries,
yet knows not how to kill.
12
Some hide themselves in Caves and Delves,
[Rev. 6:15, 16]
in places under ground:
Some rashly leap into the Deep,
to scape by being drown’d:
Some to the Rocks (O sensless blocks!)
and woody Mountains run,
That there they might this fearful sight,
and dreaded Presence shun.
Edward Taylor 1645–1729
From Preparatory Meditations, First Series
38. MEDITATION. I JOH. 2.1. AN ADVOCATE WITH THE FATHER
Oh! What a thing is Man? Lord, Who am I?
That thou shouldst give him Law (Oh! golden Line)
To regulate his Thoughts, Words, Life thereby.
And judge him Wilt thereby too in thy time.
A Court of Justice thou in heaven holdst
To try his Case while he’s here housd on mould.
How do thy Angells lay before thine eye
My Deeds both White, and Black I dayly doe?
How doth thy Court thou Pannellst there them try?
But flesh complains. What right for this? let’s know.
For right, or wrong I can’t appeare unto’t.
And shall a sentence Pass on such a suite?
Soft; blemish not this golden Bench, or place.
Here is no Bribe, nor Colourings to hide
Nor Pettifogger to befog the Case
But Justice hath her Glory here well tri’de.
Her spotless Law all spotted Cases tends.
Without Respect or Disrespect them ends.
God’s Judge himselfe: and Christ Atturny is,
The Holy Ghost Regesterer is founde.
Angells the sergeants are, all Creatures kiss
The booke, and doe as Evidences abounde.
All Cases pass according to pure Law
And in the sentence is no Fret, nor flaw.
What saist, my soule? Here all thy Deeds are tri’de.
Is Christ thy Advocate to pleade thy Cause?
Art thou his Client? Such shall never slide.
He never lost his Case: he pleads such Laws
As Carry do the same, nor doth refuse
The Vilest sinners Case that doth him Choose.
This is his Honour, not Dishonour: nay
No Habeas-Corpus against his Clients came
For all their Fines his Purse doth make down pay.
He Non-Suites Satan’s Suite or Casts the Same.
He’l plead thy Case, and not accept a Fee.
He’l plead Sub Forma Pauperis for thee.
My Case is bad. Lord, be my Advocate.
My sin is red: I’me under Gods Arrest.
Thou hast the Hint of Pleading; plead my State.
Although it’s bad thy Plea will make it best.
If thou wilt plead my Case before the King:
I’le Waggon Loads of Love, and Glory bring.
[When] Let by Rain
Ye Flippering Soule,
Why dost between the Nippers dwell?
Not stay, nor goe. Not yea, nor yet Controle.
Doth this doe well?
Rise journy’ng when the skies fall weeping Showers.
Not o’re nor under th’Clouds and Cloudy Powers.
Not yea, nor noe:
On tiptoes thus? Why sit on thorns?
Resolve the matter: Stay thyselfe or goe.
Be n’t both wayes born.
Wager thyselfe against thy surplice, see,
And win thy Coate: or let thy Coate Win thee.
Is this th’Effect,
To leaven thus my Spirits all?
To make my heart a Crabtree Cask direct?
A Verjuicte Hall?
As Bottle Ale, whose Spirits prisond nurst
When jog’d, the bung with Violence doth burst?
Shall I be made
A sparkling Wildfire Shop
Where my dull Spirits at the Fireball trade
Do frisk and hop?
And while the Hammer doth the Anvill pay,
The fireball matter sparkles ery way.
One sorry fret,
An anvill Sparke, rose higher
And in thy Temple falling almost set
The house on fire.
Such fireballs droping in the Temple Flame
Burns up the building: Lord forbid the same.
Upon a Spider Catching a Fly
Thou sorrow, venom Elfe.
Is this thy play,
To spin a web out of thyselfe
To Catch a Fly?
For Why?
I saw a pettish wasp
Fall foule therein.
Whom yet thy Whorle pins did not clasp
Lest he should fling
His sting.
But as affraid, remote
Didst stand hereat
And with thy little fingers stroke
And gently tap
His back.
Thus gently him didst treate
Lest he should pet,
And in a froppish, waspish heate
Should greatly fret
Thy net.
Whereas the silly Fly,
Caught by its leg
Thou by the throate tookst hastily
And ’hinde the head
Bite Dead.
This goes to pot, that not
Nature doth call.
Strive not above what strength hath got
Lest in the brawle
Thou fall.
This Frey seems thus to us.
Hells Spider gets
His intrails spun to whip Cords thus
And wove to nets
And sets.
To tangle Adams race
In’s stratigems
To their Destructions, spoil’d, made base
By venom things
Damn’d Sins.
But mighty, Gracious Lord
Communicate
Thy Grace to breake the Cord, afford
Us Glorys Gate
And State.
We’l Nightingaile sing like
When pearcht on high
In Glories Cage, thy glory, bright,
And thankfully,
For joy.
Huswifery
Make me, O Lord, thy Spining Wheele compleate.
Thy Holy Worde my Distaff make for mee.
Make mine Affections thy Swift Flyers neate
And make my Soule thy holy Spoole to bee.
My Conversation make to be thy Reele
And reele the yarn thereon spun of thy Wheele.
Make me thy Loome then, knit therein this Twine:
And make thy Holy Spirit, Lord, winde quills:
Then weave the Web thyselfe. The yarn is fine.
Thine Ordinances make my Fulling Mills.
Then dy the same in Heavenly Colours Choice,
All pinkt with Varnisht Flowers of Paradise.
Then cloath therewith mine Understanding, Will,
Affections, Judgment, Conscience, Memory
My Words, and Actions, that their shine may fill
My wayes with glory and thee glorify.
Then mine apparell shall display before yee
That I am Cloathd in Holy robes for glory.
Philip Freneau 1752–1832
The Indian Student
OR, FORCE OF NATURE
From Susquehanna’s farthest springs
Where savage tribes pursue their game,
(His blanket tied with yellow strings,)
A shepherd of the forest came.
Not long before, a wandering priest
Expressed his wish, with
visage sad –
’Ah, why (he cried) in Satan’s waste,
’Ah, why detain so fine a lad?
’In white-man’s land there stands a town
’Where learning may be purchased low –
’Exchange his blanket for a gown,
‘And let the lad to college go.’ –
From long debate the council rose,
And viewing Shalum’s tricks with joy
To Cambridge Hall,*
o’er wastes of snows,
They sent the copper-coloured boy.
One generous chief a bow supplied,
This gave a shaft, and that a skin;
The feathers, in vermillion dyed,
Himself did from a turkey win:
Thus dressed so gay, he took his way
O’er barren hills, alone, alone!
His guide a star, he wandered far.
His pillow every night a stone.
At last he came, with foot so lame,
Where learned men talk heathen Greek,
And Hebrew lore is gabbled o’er,
To please the Muses, – twice a week.
Awhile he writ, awhile he read,
Awhile he conned their grammar rules –
(An Indian savage so well bred
Great credit promised to the schools.)
Some thought he would in law excel,
Some said in physic he would shine;
And one that knew him, passing well,
Beheld, in him, a sound Divine.
But those of more discerning eye
Even then could other prospects show,
And saw him lay his Virgil by
To wander with his dearer bow.
The tedious hours of study spent,
The heavy-moulded lecture done,
He to the woods a hunting went,
Through lonely wastes he walked, he run.
No mystic wonders fired his mind;
He sought to gain no learned degree,
But only sense enough to find
The squirrel in the hollow tree.
The shady bank, the purling stream,
The woody wild his heart possessed,
The dewy lawn, his morning dream
In fancy’s gayest colours dressed.
‘And why (he cried) did I forsake
‘My native wood for gloomy walls;
‘The silver stream, the limpid lake
‘For musty books and college halls.
‘A little could my wants supply –
‘Can wealth and honour give me more;
‘Or, will the sylvan god deny
‘The humble treat he gave before?
‘Let seraphs gain the bright abode,
‘And heaven’s sublimest mansions see –
‘I only bow to Nature’s God –
‘The land of shades will do for me.
‘These dreadful secrets of the sky
‘Alarm my soul with chilling fear –
‘Do planets in their orbits fly,
‘And is the earth, indeed, a sphere?
‘Let planets still their course pursue,
‘And comets to the centre run –
‘In Him my faithful friend I view,
‘The image of my God – the Sun.
‘Where Nature’s ancient forests grow,
‘And mingled laurel never fades,
‘My heart is fixed; – and I must go
‘To die among my native shades.’
He spoke, and to the western springs,
(His gown discharged, his money spent,
His blanket tied with yellow strings,)
The shepherd of the forest went.
Joel Barlow 1754–1812
From The Hasty-Pudding
CANTO I
Ye Alps audacious, thro’ the Heavens that rise,
To cramp the day and hide me from the skies;
Ye Gallic flags, that o’er their heights unfurl’d,
Bear death to kings, and freedom to the world,
I sing not you. A softer theme I chuse,
A virgin theme, unconscious of the Muse,
But fruitful, rich, well suited to inspire
The purest frenzy of poetic fire.
Despise it not, ye Bards to terror steel’d,
Who hurl’d your thunders round the epic field;
Nor ye who strain your midnight throats to sing
Joys that the vineyard and the still-house bring;
Or on some distant fair your notes employ,
And speak of raptures that you ne’er enjoy.
I sing the sweets I know, the charms I feel,
My morning incense, and my evening meal,
The sweets of Hasty-Pudding. Come, dear bowl,
Glide o’er my palate, and inspire my soul.
The milk beside thee, smoking from the kine,
Its substance mingled, married in with thine,
Shall cool and temper thy superior heat,
And save the pains of blowing while I eat.
Oh! could the smooth, the emblematic song
Flow like thy genial juices o’er my tongue,
Could those mild morsels in my numbers chime,
And, as they roll in substance, roll in rhyme,
No more thy aukward unpoetic name
Should shun the Muse, or prejudice thy fame;
But rising grateful to th’ accustom’d ear,
All Bards should catch it, and all realms revere!
Assist me first with pious toil to trace
Thro’ wrecks of time thy lineage and thy race;
Declare what lovely squaw, in days of yore,
(Ere great Columbus sought thy native shore)
First gave thee to the world; her works of fame
Have liv’d indeed, but liv’d without a name.
Some tawny Ceres, goddess of her days,
First learn’d with stones to crack the well-dry’d maize,
Thro’ the rough sieve to shake the golden show’r,
In boiling water stir the yellow flour:
The yellow flour, bestrew’d and stir’d with haste,
Swells in the flood and thickens to a paste,
Then puffs and wallops, rises to the brim,
Drinks the dry knobs that on the surface swim:
The knobs at last the busy ladle breaks,
And the whole mass its true consistence takes.
Could but her sacred name, unknown so long,
Rise like her labors, to the song of song,
To her, to them, I’d consecrate my lays,
And blow her pudding with the breath of praise.
If ’twas Oella, whom I sang before,
I here ascribe her one great virtue more.
Not thro’ the rich Peruvian realms alone
The fame of Sol’s sweet daughter should be known,
But o’er the world’s wide climes should live secure,
Far as his rays extend, as long as they endure.
Dear Hasty-Pudding, what unpromis’d joy
Expands my heart, to meet thee in Savoy!
Doom’d o’er the world thro’ devious paths to roam,
Each clime my country, and each house my home,
My soul is sooth’d, my cares have found an end,
I greet my long-lost, unforgotten friend.
For thee thro’ Paris, that corrupted town,
How long in vain I wandered up and down,
Where shameless Bacchus, with his drenching hoard
Cold from his cave usurps the morning board.
London is lost in smoke and steep’d in tea;
No Yankee there can lisp the name of thee;
The uncouth word, a libel on the town,
Would call a proclamation from the crown.
For climes oblique, that fear the sun’s full rays,
Chill’d in their fogs, exclude the generous maize;
A grain whose rich luxuriant growth requires
Short g
entle showers, and bright etherial fires.
Francis Scott Key 1779–1843
The Star-Spangled Banner
O say, can you see, by the dawn’s early light,
What so proudly we hailed at the twilight’s last gleaming –
Whose broad stripes and bright stars, through the clouds of the fight,
O’er the ramparts we watched were so gallantly streaming!
And the rocket’s red glare, the bombs bursting in air,
Gave proof through the night that our flag was still there;
O! say, does that star-spangled banner yet wave
O’er the land of the free, and the home of the brave?
On that shore dimly seen through the mists of the deep,
Where the foe’s haughty host in dread silence reposes,
What is that which the breeze, o’er the towering steep,
As it fitfully blows, now conceals, now discloses?
Now it catches the gleam of the morning’s first beam,
In full glory reflected now shines on the stream;
Tis the star-spangled banner; O long may it wave
O’er the land of the free, and the home of the brave!
And where is that band who so vauntingly swore
That the havoc of war and the battle’s confusion
A home and a country should leave us no more?
Their blood has washed out their foul footsteps’ pollution.
No refuge could save the hireling and slave
From the terror of flight, or the gloom of the grave;
And the star-spangled banner in triumph doth wave
O’er the land of the free, and the home of the brave.
O! thus be it ever, when freemen shall stand
Between their loved homes and the war’s desolation!
Blest with victory and peace, may the heav’n-rescued land
Praise the power that hath made and preserved us a nation.
Then conquer we must, when our cause it is just,
And this be our motto – ‘In God is our trust’:
And the star-spangled banner in triumph shall wave
O’er the land of the free, and the home of the brave.
William Cullen Bryant
1794–1878
The Prairies
These are the gardens of the Desert, these
The unshorn fields, boundless and beautiful,
For which the speech of England has no name –
The Prairies. I behold them for the first,
And my heart swells, while the dilated sight
Takes in the encircling vastness. Lo! they stretch,
In airy undulations, far away,
As if the ocean, in his gentlest swell,