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So swift, a bullet scarce could catch you?
And will you not confess, in this
A judge most competent he is;
Well skill'd on running to decide,
As what himself has often tried?

Have you not roused, his force to try on,
That grim old beast the British Lion;
And know you not, that at a sup
He's large enough to eat you up?

Britain, depend on 't, will take on her
T'assert her dignity and honor,
And ere she'd lose your share of pelf,
Destroy your country, and herself.
For has not North declared they fight
To gain substantial rev'nue by 't
Denied he'd ever deign to treat,
Till on your knees and at his feet?

A TIME-WORN BELLE

(From The Progress of Dulness) Poor Harriet now hath had her day; No more the beaux confess her sway; New beauties push her from the stage; She trembles at th' approach of age, And starts to view the alter'd face, That wrinkles at her in her glass: So Satan, in the monk's tradition, Fear'd when he met his apparition. At length her name each coxcomb cancels From standing lists of toasts and angels; And slighted where she shone before, A grace and goddess now no more, Despised by all, and doom'd to meet Her lovers at her rival's feet, She flies assemblies, shuns the ball, And cries out, vanity, on all;

Affects to scorn the tinsel-shows
Of glittering belles and gaudy beaux;
Nor longer hopes to hide by dress
The tracks of age upon her face.
Now careless grown of airs polite,
Her noonday nightcap meets the sight;
Her hair uncomb'd collects together,
With ornaments of many a feather;
Her stays for easiness thrown by,
Her rumpled handkerchief awry,
A careless figure half undress'd
(The reader's wits may guess the rest);
All points of dress and neatness carried,
As though she'd been a twelvemonth married;
She spends her breath, as years prevail,

At this sad wicked world to rail,

To slander all her sex impromptu,

And wonder what the times will come to.

12. Joel Barlow (1754-1812) wrote a long epic in serious vein, The Columbiad, but is remembered to-day for the humorous poem The Hasty Pudding, which he dedicated to Martha Washington.

(From The Hasty Pudding. A Poem in Three Cantos. Written at Chambéry, in Savoy, January, 1793. New Haven, 1796) He makes a good breakfast who mixes pudding with molasses.

TO MRS. WASHINGTON

MADAM: A simplicity in diet, whether it be considered with reference to the happiness of individuals or the prosperity of a nation, is of more consequence than we are apt to imagine. In recommending so great and necessary a virtue to the rational part of mankind, I wish it were in my power to do it in such a manner as would be likely to gain their attention. I am sensible that it is one of those subjects in which example has infinitely more power than the most convincing arguments, or the highest charms of poetry. Goldsmith's Deserted Village, though possessing these two advantages in a greater degree than any other work of the kind, has not prevented villages in England from being deserted. The apparent interest of the

rich individuals, who form the taste as well as the laws in that country, has been against him; and with that interest it has been vain to contend.

The vicious habits which in this little piece I endeavor to combat, seem to me not so difficult to cure. No class of people has any interest in supporting them, unless it be the interest which certain families may feel in vying with each other in sumptuous entertainments. There may indeed be some instances of depraved appetites which no arguments will conquer; but these must be rare. There are very few persons but would always prefer a plain dish for themselves, and would prefer it likewise for their guests, if there were no risk of reputation in the case. This difficulty can only be removed by example; and the example should proceed from those whose situation enables them to take the lead in forming the manners of a nation. Persons of this description in America, I should hope, are neither above nor below the influence of truth and reason when conveyed in language suited to the subject.

Whether the manner I have chosen to address my arguments to them be such as to promise any success, is what I cannot decide. But I certainly had hopes of doing some good, or I should not have taken the pains of putting so many rhymes together; and much less should I have ventured to place your name at the head of these observations.

Your situation commands the respect and your character the affections of a numerous people. These circumstances impose a duty upon you, which I believe you discharge to your own satisfaction and that of others. The example of your domestic virtues has doubtless a great effect among your countrywomen. I only wish to rank simplicity of diet among the virtues. In that case it will certainly be cherished by you and I should hope more esteemed by others than it is at present. THE AUTHOR.

THE HASTY PUDDING-CANTO I

Ye Alps audacious, through the heavens that rise,
To cramp the day and hide me from the skies;
Ye Gallic flags, that o'er their heights unfurled,
Bear death to kings, and freedom to the world,
I sing not you. A softer theme I choose,
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 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 mingle, 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 awkward unpoetic name
Should shun the muse, or prejudice thy fame;
But rising grateful to the accustom'd ear,

All bards should catch it, and all realms revere !

13. Timothy Dwight (1752-1817), the grandson of Jonathan Edwards, was at one time President of Yale College. One of his well-remembered songs follows.

PSALM CXXXVII

(From Dwight's revision of Watts's Psalms)

I love thy kingdom, Lord,

The house of thine abode,

The church, our blest Redeemer sav'd

With his own precious blood.

I love thy church, O God!

Her walls before thee stand,

Dear as the apple of thine eye,
And graven on thy hand.

If e'er to bless thy sons

My voice, or hands, deny,

These hands let useful skill forsake,
This voice in silence die.

For her my tears shall fall,

For her my prayers ascend;

To her my cares and toils be given
Till toils and cares shall end.

Beyond my highest joy

I prize her heavenly ways,

Her sweet communion, solemn vows,
Her hymns of love and praise.

Jesus, thou friend divine,

Our Saviour and our King,

Thy hand from every snare and foe

Shall great deliverance bring.

Sure as thy truth shall last,

To Zion shall be given

The brightest glories earth can yield,
And brighter bliss of heaven.

III. Other Literary Records

This period is interesting from the purely literary viewpoint as being an era of beginnings. At this time we discover both the first American poet and the first American novelist. Philip Freneau, in such poems as The Wild Honeysuckle, is decidedly the forerunner of Bryant; and Charles Brockden Brown, the father of American fiction, is the herald of Poe. Here, too, we find the beginnings of the American drama. In April, 1767, The Prince of

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