Anonymous Poem

Famous Poets Anonymous

A Fair BargainTears of Science
The Decline of AutumnFair Adaline
Humble CotPleasure and Pain
The Good ThingRetirement in Winter
The KissThe Conference
The DoveLove
On a RobinThe People Are the Government
Smiles of the FairThe Rose and the Snail
The Contented LabourerTo Nature on earth
Filly and WolfThe Retirement
Plain SailingProposal to the Ladies
Tipple and SmokeThe World's A Lottery

A Fair Bargain
Poughkeepsie Journal Jul 4, 1787


From the Columbian Magazine

AS Satan was taking an airing one day
Columbia's fair genius fell plump in his way,
Array'd like a goddess, and blooming as May,
Vile monster, said she, you oppose me in vain,
My people shall surely their wishes obtain;
You can but perplex us - and so mark the end on't,
For, sooner or later they'll be independent.
What you say, quoth the fiend, I confess is too true,
But why not allow the poor devil his due;
Give me one of your states, and the rest shall be free
To follow their fate, unmolested by me.
Agreed! said the lady, if that's all you want,
Here take and enjoy it - it is my Vermont.
Oh! no! exclaimed Satan, how gen'rous you've grown,
So kindly to give what's already my own.
So thank you for nothing, fair lady, I trow
The devil is not to be bamboozled so.
Come - down with your dust - you know what I mean.
I must have at least one of your fav'rite Thirteen.

A tear in her eye, and a sigh from her breast
The doubts and the fears of the genius confest;
But while she was puzzled, unable to find
Which state might with ease be to Satan resign'd,
The five per cent. impost - law popt in her mind.
This settled the point - she look'd up with a smile and
presented his Fiendship the state of Rhode Island.
He seiz'd the fair prize - cram'd it into his pocket,
And darted away in a blaze, like a rocket.

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Tears of Science

At the seat of instruction, where once she was blest,
Fair science sat mourning with sadness oppres'd.
Her maps and her volumes lay scatter'd around;
Her globes, all in fragments, were strew'd on the ground,
There lay, in rude tatters, the relics of sense;
The waste and destruction of genius immense.
She sigh'd, shook her head, and with anguish began,
Alas! for the boy when he thinks he's a man:
When his nature grows tall, and his fingers begin
To stroke the soft down that comes over his chin
When he talks of assemblies, assumes a fine air,
Falls in love, as he calls it, and dreams of the fair,
This school and these students, I claim as my own,
Here my precepts were utter'd, my maxims made known;
I open'd my treasures, around me they came,
And I rais'd their ambition for glory and fame.
I display'd the fair honors for wisdom design'd,
And the list'ning content she bestows on the mind.
They heard me with rapture; i saw in their eyes
Fair hope, emulation and genius arise;
I hail'd the glad omen! my children! I cried,
Let no pleasing objects your bosom divide,
Till crown'd with fair virtue, for glory design'd,
I'll bestow you, a blessing and joy to mankind.
Ah! fond expectation! I saw with despair,
How soon they forsook me to wait on the fair,
While I talk'd of the planets that roll through the skies,
Their minds were on dimples and beautiful eyes;
I laid down positions and strove to explain;
They thought of Eliza, Louisa, and Jane.
I saw a fine youth as apart he retir'd,
He seem'd with the ardor of science inspir'd,
His books and his pen were dispos'd in due place,
And deep lines of thinking were mark'd on his face.
Sweet hope in my breast was beginning to swell,
And I lov'd the dear boy that could study so well;
Nor shall my assistance be wasted, I cried,
I'll crown my exertions and spring to his side.
Alas! an acrostic! the verses were planned,
The name was all written, the letters were scann'd,
The initials arrang'd to promote the design,
and his genius was working to get the first line.
I shut up my Euclid, I blush'd for myself.
I laid Blair and Murray again on the shelf,
Disappointed, ashamed and o'ercome with regret
I utter'd a wish I shall never forget,
That all the dear maidens my counsels would prize,
And shun every lad till he's learned and wise.

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The Decline of Autumn
Poughkeepsie Journal November 13, 1798


The bosom of earth is all matted with leaves,
The honors of Autumn decay;
Brown Ceres no longer exhibits her sheaves
To the golden-ey'd monarch of day.
With dissonant guns, hills and valleys resound,
The swains thro the coppices rove;
The partridges bleed on the arable ground,
The pheasants lie dead in the grove.

The coats of the hedges look languidly green,
The swallows relinquish the meads;
Rude winter approaches with horrible mein,
The flowers give place to the weeds.
The Sun too is lazy, and slumbers a bed,
As loathing so early to rise;
When risen, how dim looks his vapoury head!
How faint he illumines the skies!

No more on the poles hang the clustering hops,
Or form a magnificent shade;
No more on the skirts shine the showery drops,
For Autumn their nurse is decay'd.
The gale that was wont to approach me so kind,
Crows sharp and flies hastily by,
To give me sweet kisses no longer inclin'd,
It bids the tear start from the eye.

O see, while I speak, from the gun's levelled aim
Death pierces the birds of the air!
Ye rovers! will nothing your conduct reclaim,
And move your hard bosoms to spare?
No nothing, ye cry with unanimous voice,
While ridicule falls from their tongue:
Ye think not, ye cruel ones as ye rejoice,
How once the poor innocents sang?

To others such barbarous sports I resign,
And fly to my Florimel's arms;
Her sanctified love shall be totally mine;
For virtue adds force to her charms.
On the base of religion, my fair may it rise!
To crown us with blessing 'twas given.
To bid our souls mount from the earth to the skies,
And give us a foretaste of heaven.

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Fair Adaline
Political Barometer Aug 24, 1802


FAIR Adaline sigh'd on her brave warrior's breast,
When contest's loud din to the field call'd away.
With passions, contending, her bosom was prest,
While her fast flowing tears gently bade him to stay.

But war o'er her country its terrors had spread,
And her cities were pale with invasion's alarms;
"Go, ALWYN, repel the invaders," she said,
And the laurel of victory bring to my arms."

The cannon loud thunder'd; the drum's troubled sound,
Re-echo'd the vales and the woodland's among,
The high mettled courser paw'd fiercely the ground,
While the fault'ring adieu died on Adaline's tongue.

To the grim scenes of battle the hero quick sped,
And rush'd thro' the storm like the thunder's dread gleam.
The foe, overthrown, were slain, captur'd or fled,
And Peace, led by Victory, wept o'er the scene.

But a ball that whiz'd horrent along the dark air,
Just when was decided the fate of the plain,
Pierc'd our brave soldier's bosom with honor's deep scar,
And he sunk in his blood mid the piles of the slain.

To Adaline's ear the sad news was convey'd,
A sigh rose convulsive; her pulse ceas'd to play;
"I'll fly to thy bosom, my hero," she said,
And her soul thro' the regions of light soar'd away.

But Alwyn was fated his Fair to survive,
Though long time he languish'd in torturing pain;
From the heaps of the slain he was taken alive,
And health and firm soundness restor'd him again.

To Adaline's mansion he hastily press'd,
His heart beat in raptures while swell'd with her charms:--
"A tear will she yield to the fear on my breast,
As the laurel of victory graces her arms".

But in vain for his fair one he anxiously calls,
In vain thro' each aisle and apartment he roams,
His voice trembles lonely along the far walls,
And the echoes lament her in deep sounding groans.

Now in a drear cave, unfrequented by light,
At the foot of yon mountain, all shrouded in gloom,
See Alwyn conversing with spectres of night,
While he points to the willow that weeps o'er her tomb.

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Humble Cot
Poughkeepsie Journal December 23 1800


"FREE from the glitt'ring pomp of state,"
I'll envy not the rich and great,
Hoarse roaring winds disturb me not,
I'm happy in my humble cot.

There, with a friend or two, I'd pore
Wild Shakespeare's volumes o'er & o'er;
Through Thompson's seasons, too, I'd rove,
And view the painted scenes of love.

From thence to young Palemon's fields,
Where fair Lavina, gleening, kneels,
Behold what language is display'd,
How lovely is the nymph portray'd.

Nor would I pass unmindful by
Sage Volney's phylosophic eye;
With him Palmyra, I'd survey,
And view the ruins as they lay.

Nor shall Columbia's genius mourn;
To them with raptures oft I turn;
Barlow, Freneau, and soaring Dwight,
I'd ever read with fresh delight.

And after all, to close my muse,
Poughkeepsie's moon-struck swain peruse,
Then with a 'kerchief bind my head,
and hie me musing off to bed.
Poughkeepsie, Dec. 10, 1800

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Pleasure and Pain
Poughkeepsie Journal March 26, 1794


The gods, one time as poets feign,
Would pleasure intermix with pain;
And perfectly incorporate so,
As one from t'other none might know;
That mortals might alike partake,
The Good & Evil which they make.

In mighty bowl they put these twain,
And stirr'd & stirr'd but all in vain;
Pleasure would somtimes float aloft,
And pain keep pleasure down as oft:
Yet still from one another fly,
Detesting either's company.

The gods who saw they sooner might
Mix fire and water day and night,
Unanimously then decreed
They should alternately succeed;
Each other's motion still pursue,
and a perpetual round renew:
Yet still-divided should remain,
Tho link'd together with a chain.

Thence comes it that we never see
A perfect bliss or misery;
Each happiness has some alloy;
And grief succeeded is by joy.
The happiest mortal needs must own
He has a time of sorrow known:
Nor can the poorest wretch deny,
But in his life he felt a joy.

The worst on't is, that in the chace,
They do not keep an equal pace;
Pleasure by minutes doth appear,
But Pain still loiters by the year.

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The Good Thing
Weekly Museum May 25, 1799 Vol. XI No. 41

The good things of life, if to all we should look,
Would swell our poor ballad quite up to a book;
The mere calls of nature contrasted are small,
'Tis greedy ambition that gapes at them all;
Then keep within bounds and limit the ring,
And contentment you'll find is a very good thing.

A competent income, enough to supply,
All we want, we can modestly wish to enjoy,
Is a very good thing, with sufficient in store
To relieve modest merit or give to the poor;
No matter though fortune deny her full swing,
Enough and to spare, is a very good thing.

The Parson himself, who holds self denial,
As a very good thing, when prov'd in the trial,
That by loosing the world we gain the grand prize!
Neglected by souls, thought the wish of the wise;
The money he says is of evil the spring,
Will grant a good living's a very good thing.

When plied with good liquors your Poet will sing
Ambitious of soaring aloof on the wing,
Still aiming at rising in fancy sublime,
To catch nothing less than the laurel in time,
Then carols away, like a bird in the spring,
That a butt of old sack is a very good thing.

Our Lawyers and Doctors in one point agree,
The marrow of practice lies all in the fee;
Both Clients and Patients may find out the cause,
When Physic has drench'd 'em, or drain'd by the laws;
The fee to the palm so attractive will cling,
Your sensitive touch is a very good thing.

With rev'rence an authoriz'd passage we bring,
"He that hath a good wife, has got a good thing."
And the proverb says plainly, "A wife in her shift,
Is allow'd on all hands as a heavenly gift!"
To the queen of good wives then strike ev'ry string,
Ye Bards, a good wife is a very good thing.

But of all the good things while in life we exist,
The blessing of health stand she first on the list;
All orders of men will subscribe to the test,
That 'tis health, florid health, far passes the rest,
Then granting good health such a very good thing,
Let us wish it to all from Peasant to King.

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Retirement in Winter
New York Weekly Museum Feb 23, 1799
Poughkeepsie Journal Mar 5, 1799


HOWL on ye winds that rudely hurl,
The storm about my cot,
I'll closely press my lovely Girl,
And bless my happy lot.

Tho' you unroof our little shed,
I'll fold her from your rage;
Whilst love the guardian of our breasts,
Shall all your force assuage.

I'll tell her fiercer charms shall rend,
The proud, ambitious great;
Whose lofty heads must learn to bend,
Amidst the pomp of state.

We'll envy not the rich, my Girl,
The proud, the great the gay;
But learn to live and love as well,
Nay, better, far than they.

Richer than theirs, our hearts shall be,
And purer far our bliss;
Then let the great ones envy me,
When these sweet lips I kiss.

Tho' mutual toil must spread our board,
Content and peace shall bless it;
And if such joy no rank afford,
Why let the lordling guess it.

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The Kiss
Poughkeepsie Journal Jan 30, 1794


HUMID seat of soft affection!
Magic union! virgin kiss!
Tenderest tie to young connection!
Surest pledge of future bliss!

Speaking silence! dumb confession,
That each secret wish imparts;
Yielding softness! sweet expression!
Balm that heals our wounded hearts!

Friendship's bright and last enjoyment!
Passions birth, and infants play!
Love's first snow-drop! young enjoyment!
Earliest dawn of brightest day!

Sorrowing's joy; adieu's last action,
Oh what language can express,
The thrilling pain, the soft affliction,
Of a tender parting kiss!

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The Conference
Poughkeepsie Journal Mar 7, 1787


I AM come, said his Reverence to Spintext to borrow,
(If you'll grant me permission) your pulpit tomorrow.
"For what purpose? -- Pshaw, that your own reason must reach,
If I ask for your pulpit, my aim is to preach.
"Excuse me, said Spintext -- I've vow'd while I live,
"To no man on earth that permission to give."
Your reasons, dear sir. -- "Why in truth I have two;
"One of which, in all conscience, I think should serve you.
"First, -- if you preach better than I -- do you see --
"My flock will in future think nothing of me --
"And if you preach worse -- sir, I speak without sneering --
"Depend on my word, sir -- you are not worth a hearing."

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The Dove
Poughkeepsie Journal Oct 3, 1793


LITTLE harmless faithful Dove,
Emblem fair of constant love,
Were I innocent like thee,
Happy! Happy should I be.
Come, and take this scatter'd grain,
'Tis thy labor's honest gain;
Were my life as pure as thine,
Pleasure! Pleasure should be mine.

Thy dear mate and offspring share
Both alike thy constant care;
Were I tender, Dove like thee,
Happy! Happy should I be.
When my fond affections rove,
Teach me, Turtle, how to love,
Were my love as true as thine,
Pleasure! Pleasure should be mine.

When thou soar'st to yonder sky,
In affection so may I;
Could my thoughts ascend like thee,
Happy! Happy should I be.
Let me, Turtle, while I view,
Learn the loves and graces too;
Then with these let reason join,
Pleasure! Pleasure shall be mine.

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Weekly Museum May 9, 1795


LOVE's a passion soft and kind;
'Tis a balm to ease the mind,
'Tis a pleasure, 'tis a pain,
"Tis a loss, and 'tis a gain,
'Tis a cure, and 'tis a smart,
'Tis an arrow to the heart,
'Tis a hope, and 'tis a fear,
'Tis a source of constant care,
'Tis a trifle, 'tis a toy,
'Tis a filty, heedless boy,
'Tis a burning raging fire,
'Tis a languishing desire,
'Tis a look, and 'tis a kiss,
'Tis here, 'tis there, 'tis that, 'tis this.
May 7, 1795.H. jun.

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On a Robin Being Taken in a Young Lady's Bed-Chamber
American Magazine Oct 1788


On sportive pinions once I flew,
And rang'd the meadows round;
For me the peach and cherry grew,
No want, nor grief I found.

But short the date of pleasure is,
While sorrows long prevail.
Gone is the flattering scene of bliss--
Ah, hear my plaintive tale!

The fowler came with fatal art,
No friendly hand was nigh,
He pierc'd my bleeding lover's heart,
I saw him fall and die!

Deep in the bosom of a wood
I rear'd my chirping young;
For them I sought the sweetest food,
For them serenely sung.

A school boy saw the downy nest
Where all my treasure lay;
No pity touch'd his harden'd breast,
He stole my young away.

Of love and pleasure thus bereft
What can the wretched do?
What other refuge now is left?
For help I fly to you.

To you whose tender bosom knows
To feel for others' pain;
To whom the wretched tell their woes
Nor ever tell in vain.

By thy kind care and bounty fed
My griefs will lose their sting;
Again I'll raise my drooping head,
And plume my shatter'd wing.

Again I'll hail the rising day,
While pleasures round me throng;
And raise my sweetest notes, to pay
Thy bounties with my song.

New-York, Oct. 20, 1788.

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The People Are the Government
Poughkeepsie Journal Mar 12, 1794


The people are the government,
The government the people;
Just so the steeple is the church,
And eke? the church the steeple.--

Remarks on the above,

The steeple may be taken down,
The church may still remain,
But if the church itself's remov'd
The steeple stands in vain--

The people and the government,
Are closely link'd together;
And he that would a schi'm make,
Is not a friend to either.

Then let Republicans unite,
To keep this union strong;
If foreign influence prevails,
Our freedom's but a song.

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Smiles of the Fair
Poughkeepsie Journal Feb 16, 1790


THE smiles of the Fair can rude passion disarm,
Their favors enliven the soul,
They dispel from the breast each anxious alarm
And all our misfortunes controul.

The patriot employed in deep study and care,
With safety to government the State;
If frowns but emcompass the brow of his fair,
In sorrow bewales his hard fate;

But if, when retired from the toils of the day,
Domestic enjoyments to share,
He finds her sweet countenance blooming as May-
How bless'd in the smiles of the fair.

The soldier, who seeks neither hardship nor pain,
But bravely all dangers can dare,
Whene'er he returns from the war-ravag'd plain,
Seeks then for the smiles of the fair.

The gay bacchanalian, or more modest swain,
Tho' different pleasures they share,
Yet in various pursuits their objects the same,
They seek for the smiles of the fair.

To whatever station we're doom'd to attain,
Depress'd by misfortune or care;
To banish our troubles, our sorrows and pain,
We'll seek for the smiles of the fair.

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The Rose and the Snail
Poughkeepsie Journal Sep 4, 1822


A Snail thus once addressed a Rose:
"O fairest thou, and sweetest flower
Which Flora bids her charms disclose,
And shed her sweetness thro' the bower!

Pardon, I pray, your humble slave,
(Pursued the Snail with great respect)
Only one little fault you have,
Which you might easily correct.

I mean those sharp and ugly thorns,
Which wound who'er approaches near;
Mar every beauty that adorns,
And each admirer fills with fear.

Zephyr, himself your faithful lover,
How new, how cruel is his case;
Dares only round your beauties hover,
And fears to meet your fond embrace."

The poison caught--the Rose consented,
And strip'd herself of every thorn;
But oh! how soon must be repented
The error of that cruel morn.

The guardian thorn no sooner gone,
The snail became, from bumble free;
Easy and impudent came on,
And crawl'd up the defenceless tree.

There quickly cankering every leaf,
Each flower and opening bud he ate;
And now the rose perceived with grief
Her error; but perceived too late!

Her fragrance gone: her beauty blasted,
And fled her young and virgin pride,
Her life was bitter while it lasted,
But soon she broke her heart and died.

Ye fair, whom snail like flatterers sue,
Mark what the awful moral shows;
Virtue is beauty's thorn in you,
And oh be wiser than the Rose.

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The Contented Labourer
The Weekly Museum July 26, 1794 Vol. VII No. 324

SOME boast of their riches and some of high life,
I boast of what's better, I mean a good wife,
With her, tho' a shilling I've scarce at command,
I'm as happy as any great man in the land.
To work I go early, am cheerful all day.
The same when employ'd as I am when at play;
And when to my cottage at eve I repair,
I'm met with a smile from a good natur'd fair.
The supper is ready, it matters not what,
If this, it is right, and the same if 'tis that;
Contentment's a feast, and what more can I wish,
A relish it gives to the most homely dish,
Ye bachelors list, and with care now attend,
To this my advice, for it comes from a friend;
If you would lead happy peaceable lives,
Be good first yourselves, and you'll all have good Wives.

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To Nature on earth
Weekly Museum January 10, 1795 Vol. VII No. 348

To Nature on earth, a short visit we pay,
That visit full oft' is no more than a day:
We rise in the morning with tears in each eye,
Says Nature, (and gives us a rattle) "Don't cry."
We sit down to breakfast; 'tis gone in a trice,
And well we remember our mother's advice;
The tears from our eyes we wipe off too soon,
And play the farce past time, thro' all the forenoon,
With a short grace, if any, we sit down to dine;
At the feast we forget that "the day will decline.-
'Tis declining already, for, if you can see,
Tho you told the clock twelve, mark the hand! that's at three."
Over coffee and tea how we trifle and prate.
'Till ev'ning, and then," who'd have thought it so late?
Says nature, "arise, make your bow and away,
My chaise at the door, and the driver won't stay."
Reluctant we enter, the reason I know,-
We are not quite sure to what inn we shall go
INN! that's not the word, and we know it too well,
For homeward we go and are going to dwell.-
And are we quite sure we shall dwell at our ease?
And shall we reside just as long as we please?
That, is the point! but where e'er we retire,
The lease of our dwelling will never expire.
Mankind are the visitors: warn'd at the thought,
At your visit behave as such visitors ought.

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Filly and Wolf
Poughkeepsie Journal Nov 13, 1822


As I believe, Mr. Editor, your readers
are by this time pretty well tired with
the slang of caucus and anti-caucus;
I send you this little harmless scrap as
a relief.

'Twas on a May morn's earliest dawn,
A Filly ambled down the lawn,
When full before her grimly stood,
A famish'd wolf in search of food.
Well met sweet miss! the ruffian cried,
Well met indeed, the colt replied:
A charming morning added he,
A charming morning echo'd she;
I am in haste, pray give me way,
I must not, cannot, will not stay:

But prythe why in such a hurry,
There's nothing gain'd by fuss and hurry.
A little minute's all I claim.
Nay do not frown my pretty dame,
Your'e young, you're very young, I deem.
Pray what's your age my lovely Queen?

I cannot say, but I am told
It's written on my foot in gold;
A Fairy pen'd it there in jest--
Read it -- and set your heart at rest.

Upon my honour I declare
I cannot see a letter there.

View closer then, the Filly cries!
Again he pores again he pries:

Not quicker from the embroiled sky
Does the impetuous lightning fly,
Than both her heels full in his face,
And brains and blood bestew'd the place.

Tis fair that biters should be bit,
And wit be doom'd to combat wit.

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The Retirement
Poughkeepsie Journal Jun 20, 1787


WELCOME peaceful, calm retreat!
Far from common ills of fate;
Welcome joys before unknown!
Ev'ry pleasure, ev'ry blessing,
Ev'ry bliss that worth possessing,
Here delights, and here alone.

Let aspiring minds pursue,
Dang'rous greatness, gilded woe,
Tortur'd with ambitious care;
Here such empty dreams despising,
Far from falling as from rising,
I avoid the tempting snare.

Heaps of wealth amass'd in vain,
Give the sordid miser's pain,
Waking dread his bosom rends;
But content my wishes bounding,
And soft peace my bed surrounding,
Downy sleep my call attends.

Fraud and fury, guilt and fear,
Breed no dire confusion here,
Perfidy no refuge finds,
Here no superstition reigning,
Crowds of fancy'd ills containing,
Preys on weak unthinking minds.

Innocence and spotless love,
Truth and honor round me rove,
Exil'd from the guilty town;
Cheerful studies time beguiling,
Wing the moments ever smiling,
'Til my latest sands fall down.

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Plain Sailing
or, resignation to the storm
The Weekly Museum May 2, 1795 Vol. VIII No. 365

WHEN once your bark is launch'd, boys, on Fortune's fickle seas,
May Patience be your pilot then, and gently blow each breeze.
Be Hope your main-sheet Anchor to hold you if distress'd.
And Prudence be your Steersman, when storms your Bark molest.
Tho' Rocks and Shoals surround us, to heave us to an fro,
There's an over-ruling Providence, that takes us all in tow;
No Lee-shore then e'er fear boys, nor harbour any dread,
There's never a sleepy watch, boys, station'd at mast-head.
Ne'er fear then Squall or Whirlwinds, if all your tackle's right,
For Patience your safe Pilot boys, will shape your course aright.
Tho' adverse winds should baffle and tatter every sail,
Be steady at the Helm, boys, and weather out the gale.
May Courage, like your Main-mast, ne'er break altho't may bend;
And Caution be your Compass, lads, when wind and seas contend.
If driven out of course boys, yet bravely stem the sea,
Your haven you'll at last gain, as sure as sure can be.
When once your voyage is over, and dangers all are past,
In wooden-dock you're laid snug, quite safe from ev'ry blast;
Then what the storm has shatter'd you'll neither fear nor care,
'Till ev'ry Plank's replac'd, boys, and put in right repair.

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Proposal to the Ladies
Poughkeepsie Journal April 3, 1798


WHEN the wise ones incline to examine the sun,
emptyThey call a smok'd glass to their aid,
That ev'ry danger of blindness they shun,
emptySo soften'd his rays by the shade.
Our ladies have now adopted this plan,
emptyHow much we their goodness should prize!
In place of the moveable screen of a fan,
emptyThey veil with a curtain their eyes,
We now without risk, their lustre may view,
emptyContemplate their charms at our ease,
From feature to feature the chase may pursue
emptyAnd fix on which ever we please.
For think not 'tis form'd of a coarse woven stuff,
emptyNo malice their bosoms could move!
Far from it, 'tis thin and transparent enough
emptyTo shew the mild graces we love,
But hard for each possible case to provide,
emptySince many freebooters are found
By lifting the head, or a peep o' one side,
emptySome eye shots continue to wound.
I've thought of a scheme; I humbly propose
emptySuch wicked designs to defeat;
A pair of black spectacles plac'd on the nose
emptyWill render our safety complete.

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Tipple and Smoke
Poughkeepsie Journal Jan 15 1799


WITH a pipe of Virginia, how happy am I,
And good liquor to moisten my clay, standing by,
I puff up the smoke, and it curls round the room,
Like a Phoenix I seem, in a nest of perfume
In a pipe, and a friend who is fond of a joke,
Then happy together we tipple and smoke.

How pleasant it is thus to puff time away,
And between ev'ry whiff chat the news of the day;
Tobacco, great Raleigh, we owe to thy name,
And ev'ry true smoker will puff up thy fame.

When business is over, we puff away care,
Let ev'ry man else say the same if he dare,
This plant, so delightful, is a foe to the spleen,
As it glows in the pipe it enlivens the scene.

While thus in the fumes we're envelop'd around,
Our heads are like hills which with clouds still are crown'd;
Yes soon we emerge, and go cheerful away,
For a pipe of the best makes us bright as the day.

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The World's A Lottery
Poughkeepsie Journal March 12, 1794


THE World's a lottery, take it through,
The blanks are many -- prizes few,
The stripling when his hopes elate,
He tries his luck in marriage state,
Expecting scenes of future bliss--
Thinking, that he has drawn in miss
A prize of no inferior rank,
Full often finds he's drawn a blank.

The blushing maid, by parents sold,
To age, ambition, lust, or gold,
And flatter'd that she has a prize,
Will often find, to her surprise
She's bound for life O! dreadful curse
To tedious blank, or something worse.

What but a lottery is the law?
Where Lawyers all the prizes draw;
Their clients give them many thanks,
For privilege to draw the blanks.

Physicians manage lottery-wise,
Here death's the blank, health is the prize,
And 'tis a truth, which most men feel,
There's but few prizes in the wheel.

He that at leeves of the great,
With fawning, cringing can await,
Can many a prize of gain expect,
Oft meets a blank of cold neglect.

But yet of all the casual crew,
The poet has the least in view,
What hopes can starving poets feel
When there's no prizes in the wheel;
For should he draw the phantom fame
'Tis but a blank an empty name.

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