Poetry Explorer- Classic Contemporary Poetry, MODERN IDOLATRY, OR ENGLISH QUIXOTISM, by PHILIP FRENEAU


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Classic and Contemporary Poetry

MODERN IDOLATRY, OR ENGLISH QUIXOTISM, by                 Poet Analysis     Poet's Biography
First Line: My native shades delight no more
Last Line: And worship wooden monarchs -- out of fear --
Subject(s): American Revolution; Great Britain


MY native shades delight no more,
I haste to meet the ocean's roar,
I seek a wild rebellious shore
Beyond the Atlantic main:

'Tis honour calls! -- I must away! --
Nor ease nor pleasure tempts my stay,
Nor all that Love himself can say,
A moment shall detain.

To meet those hosts that dare disown
Allegiance to Britannia's throne
I draw the sword that pities none,
I draw their rebel blood;

Amazement shall their troops confound
When gasping, prostrate on the ground,
My sword shall drink from every wound
A life destroying flood!

The swarthy Indian, yet unbroke,
Shall bend his neck to Britain's yoke,
Or flee from her avenging stroke
To desarts yet unknown;

The Atlantic isles shall own her sway,
Peru and Mexico obey,
And those who yet to Satan pray
Beyond the southern zone.

For George the third I dare to go
Through Etna's fire and Greenland's snow,
Where'er our kindred waters flow,
The vast unbounded main.

In him true glory shines complete,
In him a thousand virtues meet --
'Twere heaven to die at George's feet.
Could I that blessing gain!

For George the third I dare to fall,
Since he to me is all in all --
May he subdue this earthly ball,
And nations tribute bring; --

Yon' rebel States shall wear his chain
Where traitors now with tyrants reign --
And subject shall be all the main
To George our potent king.

When honour calls to guard his throne,
My life I dare not call my own --
My life I yield, without a groan,
For him whom I adore:

In endless glory he shall reign --
'Tis he shall conquer France and Spain --
Though I perphaps may ne' er again
Behold my native shore!



EPILOGUE

'TIS so well known 'tis hardly worth relating
That men have worshipped gods, though of their own creating;
Art's handy work they thought they might adore,
And bowed to gods that were but logs before.

Idols, of old, were made of clay or wood,
And, in themselves, did neither harm nor good,
Acted as though they knew the good old rule,
"Friend, hold thy peace, and you'll be thought no fool."

Britons! their case is yours -- and linked in fate
You, like your Indian allies -- good and great --
Bow to some frowning block yourselves did rear,
And worship wooden monarchs -- out of fear --





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