Poems in Early Canadian Newspapers

 

All material copyright © Canadian Poetry Press.
 

 Quebec Gazette

1769

 

 

February

  





February 2, 1769. No. 214.



Liberty: Address to her Britons, in behalf of the Corsicans.

With throbbing bosom, and woe-speaking eye,
On Albion’s sea-beat shore, poor Liberty,
Her spear thrown careless by her, lay reclin’d,
And gave her sorrows to the passing wind.
   "Can Briton’s sons with lukewarm souls survey                                     5
Th’ insidious Gaul thus spread his tyrant sway?
Can they, unmov’d, the Corsicans behold
To tyrant Gaul like beasts for treasure sold;
Those heroes who so gloriously have stood,
And in my cause long shed their noblest blood;                                      10
Shall Bourbon’s haughty race attempt to bind
In slav’ry’s galling fetters all mankind?
And shall not my brave sons like brethren join
To save a world, and blast the fell design?
Rouse, rouse, ye Britons, see your cross display’d;                                15
And to my fav’rites wing fraternal aid;
Already have they long sustain’d the fight,
And myriad foes repeated put to flight;
But ah! in vain:——Fresh myriads onward pour;——
If unsupported, Freedom is no more;                                                     20
Butcher’d by those base sons of tyranny,
Who, slaves themselves, detest all who are free;——
In vain the lion dares the fight maintain,
While myriad foes beset the hostile plain.
   Would Britons but unsheath their conq’ring sword,                              25
And friendly aid in freedom’s cause afford;
The Gallic legions soon would fly the field,
And to your dreaded oft-try’d valour yield:
Rouse, rouse, my sons:—But ah! I fear, she said,
The love of Freedom from your souls is fled:                                          30
The fiend, bewitching luxury, the son
Of slavery, whose magic spells forerun
His parent’s steps, his opiate influence sheds,
Unnerves your hearts, and your weak counsels leads:
His soft’ning poison but prepares the doom                                            35
That buried in the dust my darling Rome.
Oh, shou’d that fatal hour which now I fear,
(Avert it, Jove omnipotent) appear,
When tyranny shall rage with giant stride,
And barefoot superstition by her side;                                                    40
When Smithfield fires again shall horrid blaze,
Those dire remembrances of Mary’s days;
When my fair offspring, Commerce, shall depart——
From her lov’d Britain, with a heavy heart;
Oh, shou’d I ever that black moment view,                                            45
To this unhappy globe I'll bid adieu.
Like that brave Greek,* whose ever envy’d name
Richly adorns the brightest page of fame;
Who at Thermopyle resign’d his breath,
With hecatombs of slaves to grace his death!                                         50
Like him my brave Paoli dare arise,
And offer up himself a sacrifice;
Like him and the few chosen Greeks who fell,
My self-devoted sons their blood shall sell,
And shew the world that Freedom they will have,                                   55
Ev’n though the road lies through the dreary grave."
   So said, she wing’d her flight, and disappear’d,
And as she flew, these words distinct were heard:
"Consider, partial and mistaken men,
Consider—in the horrid Cyclops den,                                                    60
The chosen few (a favourite repast)
Were but preserv’d to be devour’d the last."

*Leonidas.

February 2, 1769. No. 214.

 

The Character of a true Englishman.


By Cardinal HOWARD.


Written originally in Italian, and addressed to the Pope, at Rome, by Pasquin.
The freeborn English, generous and wise,
Hate chains, but do not government despise.
Rights of the crown, Tributes and Taxes, they,
When legally exacted, freely pay.
Force they abhor, and wrongs they scorn to bear,  }

5
More guided by their judgement, than their fear,
Justice, with them, was never held severe.
Their Pow’r by Tyranny was never got;
Laws might, perhaps, enslave ’em: Force cannot,
Kings are less safe in their unbounded will,                                             10
Join’d with the wretched Pow’r of doing ill:
Forsaken most, when they’re most absolute.
Laws guard the man, and only bind the brute.
To force that guard with its worst foe to join, }
Can never be a prudent King’s design:   

15
What Prince would change to be a Cataline?
Break his own Laws, shake an unquestion’d throne!
Conspire with vassals to usurp his own!———
Let France grow proud beneath the tyrant’s lust,
While the rack’d people crawl, and like the dust:                                    20
The manly genius of this Isle disdains
All tinsel slavery, or golden chains.
England to servile yoke could never bow:
What Conqu’rors ne’er presum’d, who dares do now!
In vain your Holiness may rack your brain:                                             25
No Son of your’s that happy Isle can gain.
Arm’d with true Gospel, and undated Law,
They guard themselves and keep the world in awe.
While Freedom reigns, and Parliaments can sit,
They scorn the Tyrants sword, and Jesuits wit.                                       30



February 9, 1769. No. 215.



The Art of Printing: A Poem

Hail mistick art! which men like angels taught,
To speak to eyes, and paint unbody’d thought!
Though deaf, and dumb; blest skill, reliev’d by thee,
We make one sense perform the task of three.
We see, we hear, we touch the head and heart,                                        5
And take, or give what each but yields in part,
With the hard laws of distance we dispense,
And without sound, apart commune in sense:
View, tho’ confined, nay rule this earthly ball,
And travel o’er the wide expanded All.                                                  10
Dead letters thus with living notions fraught,
Prove to the soul the telescopes of thought;
To mortal life a deathless witness give,
And bid all deeds and titles last, and live.
In scanty life eternity we taste;                                                               15
View the first ages, and inform the last,
Arts, hist’ry, laws, we purchase with a look,
And keep, like fate, all nature in a book.

February 9, 1769. No. 215.



On Friendship

When friendship’s sacred sympathies inspire,
Who can resist the muse’s kindling fire?
Friendship, thou dearest blessing Heaven bestows!
Balm of our cares! and softner of our woes!
I at thy shrine my willing tribute pay,                                                         5
And to thy honour consecrate the lay.
Thy form is lovely, and thy fruits divine;
For love and peace, and truth, and joy, are thine;
And kindred souls, who feel the generous flame,
Enjoy a fund of bliss that wants a name.                                                 10
   Ye sons of wine! that o’er your cups pretend
Eternal service to your jovial friend,‘
When the warm fumes forsake your reeling brains,
Say of your boasted friendship what remains?
How oft, alas! what bitter hate succeeds!                                               15
What broken vows! and what atrocious deeds!
How oft in smoak your loud professions end,
And the smooth flatterer supplants the friend!
   Ye sons of interest! whose benighted souls
Are cold and dark as winter at the poles,                                               20
Say when your favourite point is once obtain’d,
Your purse replenish’d and your neighbour’s drain’d,
When pinching poverty distracts his breast,
Will then your friendship firmly stand the test?
Will friendship then the needful aid supply,                                              25
And wipe the bursting tear from sorrow’s eye?
Friendship’s a pure, a Heaven-descended flame,
Worthy the happy region whence it came,
The sacred tie that virtuous spirits binds,
The golden chain that links immortal minds,                                            30
Not the obsequious fop whose words beguile,
Who lives or dies as you or frown or smile?
Nor, whom immensely complaisant we find,
Those humble servants of all human kind,
Nor joyous buck, nor vain assuming ape                                                35
(Who shows your friendship in a modish shape)
Nor rake nor spendthrift, nor time-serving tool,
Nor fawning knave, nor self-sufficient fool,
Can feel the joy true amity imparts
To gentle bosoms, and to honest hearts:                                                 40
To vice and shame the charmer’s all unknown,
She lives and reigns in virtuous breasts alone.

February 9, 1769. No. 215.



ODE, par M. DE VOLTAIRE, à un Marchand de Brétagne, qui avoit nommé un de ses vaisseaux de son Nom.

O Vaisseau, qui portes mon Nom,
Puisses-tu, comme moi, résister aux Orages:
L’Empire de Neptune a vu moins de Naufrages,
   Que le permesse d’Apollon.
Tu vogueras peut-être à ces Climats sauvages                                          5
Que Jean-Jacque a vanté dans son nouveau Jargon:
   Va débarquer sur ces Rivages
   Patouillet, Nonotte (a) & Freron;
   A moins qu’aux Chantiers de Toulon
Ils ne servent le Roi noblement & sans gages.                                         10
Mais non, ton sort t’appelle aux Dunes d’Albion:
Tu verras dans les Champs qu’arrose la Tamise,
La Liberté superbe auprès du Trone assise;
Le Chapeau qui la couvre, est orné de Lauriers;
Et malgre ses Partis, sa Fougue & sa Licence,                                        15
Elle tient dans ses Mains la Corne d’Abondance,
   Et les Etendarts des Guerriers.
Sois certain que Paris ne s’informera gueres
Si tu vogues vers Smirne où l’on vit naitre Homere;
   Ou si ton Breton nautonnier                                                                 20
Te conduit prés de Naples, en ce Séjour fertile,
Qui fait bien plus de Cas du Sang de Saint Janvier,
   Que de la Cendre de Virgile.
Ne vas point sur le Tibre: Il n’est plus de Talens,
   Plus de Héros, plus de grand Homme                                                  25
   Chez ce Peuple de Conquerans;
   Il est un Pape, et plus de Rome.
Vas plutot vers ce Monts qu’autrefois separa
   Le redoubtable Fils d’Alcmene,
Qui dompta les Lions, sous qui l’Hidre expira,                                        30
Et qui des Cieux jaloux brava toujours la Reine.
Tu verras en Espagne un Alcide nouveau, (b)
   Vainqueur d’une Hidre plus fatale,
Des Superstitions déchirant le Bandeau,
   Plongeant dans la Nuit du Tombeau                                                    35
De l’Inquisition la puissance infernale:
Dis-lui qu’il est en France un Mortel qui l’egale; (c)
Car tu parles sans Doute, ainsi que le Vaisseau
   Qui transporta dans la Colchyde
Les deux Gemeaux divins, Jason, Orphee, Alcide.                                  40
Baptisé sous mon Nom, tu parles hardiment:
Que ne diras-tu point des énormes sottises
   Que mes chers Francois ont commises
   Sur l’un et sur l’autre Element?
Tu brules de partir; attend, demeure, arrête,                                           45
Je pretends m’embarquer; attends-moi, je te joins.
Libre des Passions et d’Erreurs et de Soins,
J’ai su de mon Azile écarter la Tempête;
Mais dans mes Prés fleuris, dans mes sombres Forets,
   Dans l’Abondance et dans la Paix,                                                      50
   Mon Ame est encore inquiete:
Des Mechans et des Sots je suis encore trop près;
Les Cris des Malheureux percent dans ma Retraite;
Enfin le mauvai Gout qui domine aujourd’hui,
   Deshonore trop ma Patrie:                                                                  55
Hier on m’apporta pour combler mon Ennui,
   Le Tacite de la Blettrie.
Je n’y tiens point, je pars et j’ai trop différé.
Ainsi je m’occupois sans Suite et sans Méthode
De ces Pensers divers où j’etois égaré,                                                   60
Comme tout solitaire à soi-meme livré,
   Ou comme un fou qui fait une Ode,
Quand Minerve tirant les Rideaux de mon Lit,
Avec l’Aube du Jour m’apperçut et me dit:
Tu trouveras par tout la meme Impertinence:                                           65
   Les Ennuyeux et les Pervers
   Composent ce vaste Univers:
   Le Monde est fait comme la France.
   Je me rendis à la Raison;
Et sans plus m’affliger des Sottises du Monde,                                        70
Je laissai mon Vaisseau sendre le Sein de l’Onde;
   Et je restai dans ma Maison.

(a)  Deux Ex-Jésuites tres-connus par M. de Voltaire. [back]
(b)  M. le Comte d’Aranda. [back]
(c)  On croit que M. de Voltaire designe ici M. le Duc de Choiseul. [back]

February 16, 1769. No. 216.



To the Conqueror of Louisbourg, Newfoundland, and Canada, on the late noble Reward for all Victories.

"Let Amherst fall!" Corruption said:
   Obedient to her Call,
Our Statesmen, knowing in their Trade!
   Re-echo’d, "Let him fall!
He never bent before thy Throne,                                                             5
   Nor dragg’d thy golden Yoke:
Then let him fall!—and let thy Son,
   Thy H——gh, strike the Stroke."
Thrice loud the Gallic Cock did crow,
   And thrice Britannia sigh’d;                                                                 10
Blush’d while the V——n gave the Blow,
   And sunk beneath the Tide.
Yet trembling for her darling Land,
   Red with maternal Shame,
To* Clio flew, whose honest Hand                                                         15
   Gives Infamy or Fame.
With downcast Eyes she spoke her Fear,
   Indignant told her Grief;
And pray’d the pitying Muse to tear
   The black, the guilty Leaf;                                                                   20
And ne’er to future Ages tell
   (Her Britannia’s foulest Stain)
How H——gh rul’d, and Amherst fell,
   While B——k seem’d to r—n.
Justice stood by, she bent her Brow,                                                      25
   Refus’d Britain’s Pray’r:
Cry’d, "Hear th’irrevocable Vow!
   ’Tis by myself I swear!
No Time shall wipe away their Crimes:
   The Names in this true Page                                                                30
Shall blacken through succeeding Times,
   And stink from Age to Age.
While ev’ry Clime, from Pole to Pole,
   Shall Amherst’s Deeds record:
The Good with Envy view his Soul,                                                        35
   The Brave revere his Sword.
And when at last to taste Repose,
   Which Statesmen never know,
To Joy’s eternal Fount he goes,
   Where Statesmen seldom go.                                                              40
In that dread Hour, when Fate shall bid
   Stern Death to set him free,
He’ll smile at Death, as late he did,
   Base H——gh! at thee.
Then the Canadian grateful, shall,                                                           45
   Low bending o’er his Grave,
Sigh, while his Tears sincerely fall,
   He conquer’d but to save!
And Britain’s froward, headstrong Child,§
   When Britain is no more,                                                                     50
Shall teach the yet untrodden Wild,
   His Mem’ry to adore.
Yes, Amherst! dear to Fame and me,
   Thy Worth shall never die:
Time, sinking by the Fate’s Decree,                                                        55
   In vast Eternity.
E’en in the cold Embrace of Death,
   Still careful of thy Fame,
Shall, with his last, his parting Breath,
   Pronounce our Amherst’s Name."                                                       60

* The Historic Muse. [back]
§ America. [back]

February 23, 1769. No. 217.



Stanzas to a Lady
Why should Maria’s Voice approve
     This languid long Delay?
Why thus avert the Joys of Love
     That might begin To-day?
That blooming Texture soon shall fade                                                      5
     Beneath the Blast of Time;
The fairest Form the Graces made,
     And Pleasures most sublime!
O let us catch the kind Alarm,
     And Death’s sad Dictates hear;                                                         10
That night, Maria, owns no Charm,
     Nor Beauty pleases there.
Observe yon’ gliding Vessel fly,
     Nor hack the wat’ry Bed!
So does the printless Foot of Joy                                                           15
     On Time’s vast Ocean tread.

February 23, 1769. No. 217.



Sonnet
High Meed of honourable Toil, fair Fame,
   The Guide and Guardian of the noble Mind,
   Still round the Warrior’s dusty Temples bind
The laureate Wreath, and light the lambent Flame.
If letter’d Merit call, attend the Sage,                                                        5
   The Boast of Science, and the Friend of Truth,
   Feed the warm Fancy of poetic Youth,
And write their Names in thy immortal Page.
Welcome Obscurity to me; I love
   The sober solemn Shade, and Moss-grown Cell,                                 10
      Where hush’d is every Care, and Pain beguil’d;
O may I tenant long thy hallow’d Grove,
   Sooth the fond foolish Heart that lov’d too well,
      And sing Corinna’s Scorn in Accents wild.

February 23, 1769. No. 217.



FRIENDSHIP, as commonly found and understood.
Friendship adieu, thou idle foolish thing!
Except when some advantage thou dost bring;
Tho’ much profess’d, thou’rt all pretension vain,
There’s no such thing, but for the sake of gain.
I’m friend to none, yet still to all pretend,                                                  5
Thus to myself I’m sure to be a friend.

 

 
  

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