Norfolk Gazette And Publick Ledger

From "The Review." a New-York paper, lately established, of uncommon merit for originalness and
keenness of satire.

THE EMBARGO,

AN ELEGY:

WRITTEN ON THE DOCKS

Being a Parody on "Gray's Elegy in a Country
Church Yard."

The embargo tolls the knell of parting trade,
The merchant musing paces on the shore,
The last few ships their course have homeward laid.
And left the ocean, to return no more!

Now fades the sun of Commerce on the sight,
The harbour all a solemn stillness holds,
Save where the smuggler, shrouded by the night.
Disturbs the tide-wolves from their distant fold

Save that from yonder floating castle's deck,
With many a curse some sailor may complain
Of land-men vile, who scar'd at war a speck,
Debar him from his element the main.

In front of lofty stores, by Commerce made,
Where casks and bales once lay in joyful heap,
Each in the narrow dock for ever laid,
The mighty riders of the ocean sleep.

The welcome breeze which from the north shall
blow,
The merchant's warning, or the tempest dread,
The boatswain's whistle, or the brisk yeho!
No more shall rouse them from their oozy bed.

For them no more shall anxious merchants burn,
Or busy news-boats ply their daily care,
No women run to welcome their return,
Or climb their sides the envied kiss to share.

Oft did their keels through briny ocean pass,
Their furrow oft the stubborn waters broke;
How jocund were they once-but now, alas!
How bow'd beneath experiment's vile stroke!

Let demagogues not mock their useful toil,
And that distress insult themselves have made,
Nor short liv'd grandeur, with disdainful smile,
Hear the sad annals of our fallen trade.

Tho' they may boast of favour, wealth and power,
Exult in all the pride of pomp and place,
They only wait th' inevitable hour--
The people's favour leads but to disgrace.

Nor you, ye proud, impute to these the fault,
If when you wish it, they refuse to run;-
The worms and mud, in these vile, filthy vaults,
Will finish soon the work which you've begun.

Can Congress law or Treasury-office breath,
Back to the tall mast call the fleeting sail?
Can proclamations sooth the ear of death,
Or rouse the sailor from a damp, cold jail?

To Nova Scotia's long neglected strand,
Full many a brave and honest heart has hied;
Hands, that might be the safe-guard of our land,
Or claim our empire on the ocean wide.

But curst embargo stared them in the face,
And lank starvation swiftly on them stole;
Chill penury repress'd their noble rage,
And froze the general current of the soul.

Some rugged Parker that with patriot glow,
Withstood the tyrant of the quarter deck,
Some mute inglorious Freneau, there may go,
Some King Tom, guiltless of his country's wrack.

Th' applause of mean toad-eaters to command,
(Tho' pain and labour they could oft despise)
To scatter misery o'er a smiling land,
And read their history in a nation's eyes.

Their lot forbade--nor circumscribed alone,
Such glowing virtues, but their crimes confined;
Forbade to wade thro' intrigue to a throne,
And shut the gates of commerce on mankind.

Far from their native land, their much-lov'd home,
Those men neglected now have learn'd to stray.
By their own country left to starve or roam,
In foreign lands they're forced to work their way.

Yet ev'n these men from insult to protect,
Some frail memorial should be rais'd on high,
For we, when true men perish by neglect,
Should pay the passing tribute of a sigh..

Did we not o'er the ashes of the dead,
With vile parade and sniv'ling, cut a flourish?
To our dishonour shall it then be said,
The dead we nurse, but let the living perish?

Embargo laws which visionaries carve,
And supplements still strew'd around the shore,
All teach the sturdy sailor how to starve,
Or quit his country to return no more.

Now who so lost to all the joys of life.
The pleasing thoughts of country e'er resign'd.
Left the warm fire side or the cheerful wife,
Nor cast one longing, lingering look behind.

On some soft breast the sailor fond relies,
Some pious drops the parting eye requires;
Ev'n in their wives the voice of nature cries,
Ev'n in their children live their hardy sires.

For thee, who mindful of departed trade,
Dost in those lines, its murder foul relate,
If chance, by nice inquisitiveness led,
Some foolish poet should inquire thy fate,

Haply some hoary-headed swain may say,
Oft have we seen him in the morn full late,
Towards the market bend his willing way,
To buy a poggy or his breakfast plate.

On that old-fashion'd heavy moulded desk,
That shows its wide fantastick front so bright,
His listless length at noon-tide would be risk,
And snore upon the lid when he should write.

Towards the reading-room he oft would go,
Muttering his wayward fancies as he went;
Now drooping, woful wan! well might he so;
For the last dollar from his purse was spent!

One morn we miss'd him on the market floor,
Along the dock, and near his fav'rite tree;
Another came--nor yet about the store,
Nor at the room, nor at the desk was he;

The next, beset with staves, in sad array,
Quick thro' the debtor's hatch we saw him hie.
Pray read (if thou darest come so near) the lay,
With charcoal scribbled on the dirty wall.'

THE EPITAPH.

Here rests his head, upon the marble floor.
A man to fortune and to fame unknown;
Fell poverty would haunt him evermore,
And this sad cell has mark'd him for its own.

Large was his bounty, and his soul sincere,
And here you see what his reward has been;
He gave to misery all he had-a tear,
He gain'd twas all he wish'd, -a pint of gin!