TO A NEW ENGLAND POET

web | The Sun Is but a Morning Star

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 fifty cents a day.

Why stay in such a tasteless land,
Where all must on a level stand,
(Excepting people, at their ease,
Who choose the level where they please:)
        See Irving gone to Britain's court
        To people of another sort,
        He will return, with wealth and fame,
        While Yankees hardly know your name.

Lo! he has kissed a Monarch's - hand!
Before a prince I see him stand,
And with the glittering nobles mix,
Forgetting times of seventy-six,
While you with terror meet the frown
Of Bank Directors of the town,
        The home-made nobles of our times,
        Who hate the bard, and spurn his rhymes.

Why pause? - like Irving, haste away,
To England your addresses pay;
And England will reward you well,
        Of British feats, and British arms,
        The maids of honor, and their charms.

Dear bard, I pray you, take the hint,
In England what you write and print,
Republished here in shop, or stall,
Will perfectly enchant us all:
        It will assume a different face,
        And post your name at every place,
        From splendid domes of first degree
        Where ladies meet, to sip their tea;
        From marble halls, where lawyers plead,
        Or Congress-men talk loud, indeed,
        To huts, where evening clubs appear,
        And 'squires resort - to guzzle Beer.

1788

© Philip Freneau
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© E-publisher LiterNet, 20.01.2009
The Sun Is but a Morning Star. Anthology of American Literature. Edited by Albena Bakratcheva. Varna: LiterNet, 2008-2010