The Poems of Philip Freneau, Poet of the American Revolution. Volume 3 (of 3) — Edition Insights

Commerce and Civic Praise

In the excerpted dialogue between Acasto, Eugenio, and Leander, Freneau constructs a sustained praise of commerce as a unifying, civilizing force. Acasto declares that "commerce is the mighty reservoir / From whence all nations draw the streams of gain," and envisions American towns outshining "the noblest cities of the eastern world." The language is expansive and optimistic, linking trade to the spread of liberty and science. Yet this praise is not naive: Leander acknowledges the dangers of seafaring, where "ev'ry billow but a gaping grave." The tension between risk and reward, between the ideal of a commercial republic and the perils of its pursuit, runs through these lines.

Freneau also ties commerce to intellectual achievement. The speaker hails Franklin as "skill'd in deep philosophy, / A genius piercing as th' electric fire," and presents America as the heir to classical learning. The muses have "wing'd their way" to "the last, the best / Of countries." This blend of economic and cultural boosterism is characteristic of Freneau's civic mode, but it sits uneasily alongside his satirical attacks on greed and hypocrisy elsewhere in the volume.

Satirical Targets and Political Voice

Alongside the celebratory poems, this volume contains numerous satires directed at specific individuals and policies. Titles such as "To Shylock Ap-Shenkin," "To a Noisy Politician," and "Addressed to a Political Shrimp" signal Freneau's willingness to name and mock his opponents. The poem "On a Legislative Act Prohibiting the Use of Spirituous Liquors" suggests a skepticism toward moral legislation, while "Lines Occasioned by a Law Passed for Cutting Down the Trees" protests environmental and political overreach.

Freneau's satirical voice is often personal and aggressive. In "Epistle to Peter Pindar, Esq.," he adopts a mock-heroic tone, and in "The New England Sabbath-Day Chace" he lampoons religious severity. These poems contrast sharply with the elevated diction of the civic odes, revealing a poet who could shift registers quickly. The targets are not abstract—they include real political figures and debates of the 1790s, such as the French Revolution, the Jay Treaty, and domestic party conflicts. Readers should note that the satires depend on contemporary context; without it, some references may seem obscure.

Occasional Elegies and Reflective Pieces

Freneau also writes elegies and meditative poems that temper the volume's political heat. "On the Death of Dr. Benjamin Franklin" mourns a national icon, while "Elegy on the Death of a Blacksmith" turns to a humble craftsman. The poem "On the Sleep of Plants" and "Hermit's Valley" show a quieter, more contemplative side, focused on nature and solitude.

These pieces often carry a moral or philosophical weight. In "The Sexton's Sermon," Freneau uses a graveyard setting to reflect on mortality, and "The Blessings of the Poppy" praises the opium poppy's power to soothe pain. The range of subjects—from the demolition of an old college to the skeletons of Lord Bellamont and Lady Hay—demonstrates Freneau's interest in the passage of time and the fragility of human achievement. Even in these reflective poems, however, a political undercurrent sometimes surfaces: the demolition of Fort George, for instance, is both a physical event and a symbol of changing power.

Readers approaching this volume should be prepared for a poet who moves rapidly between public celebration and private satire, between grand historical vision and pointed topical attack. The poems reward attention to their specific occasions—the legislative acts, demolished buildings, and political feuds that Freneau engaged with directly. At the same time, his recurring concerns with commerce, liberty, science, and mortality give the collection a coherence that transcends its occasional nature. This is a poet who saw his work as part of the fabric of the new nation's political and cultural life.

That storm-locked afternoon, Freneau’s snarl at demagogues and his brassy odes to harbor trade eventually blurred into something plainer—the weight of a man who watched his republic curdle. I set him down and, almost idly, opened George Crabbe: Poems, Volume 3 (of 3) — A Closer Reading. Where Freneau thundered, Crabbe merely observed, murmuring about hedges and debt. Same century, same disappointment, though one shouted while the other measured his breath.