seventy six, and the effusions of his muse cheered the desponding soldier as he fought the battles of freedom; he was the popular poet of the Revolution." His death is recorded in the old Bible by his daughter Agnes, and closes the Freneau record. "My dear father, Philip Freneau, was buried, by his own particular request, in the Locust Grove, very near his beloved mother, on Friday afternoon the twenty-first of December, 1832." Freneau was buried under the tree of which we have already spoken as being his favorite seat, and under whose shade he composed many of his poems. His tombstone is a very simple one, of marble surmounted by a draped urn, and bears the inscription: "POET'S GRAVE. PHILIP FRENEAU died December 18th. 1832 ae. 80 years, 11 months, and 16 days. "He was a native of New York, but for many years a resident of Philadelphia and New Jersey. His upright and honest character is in the memory of many, and will remain when this inscription is no longer legible. "Heaven lifts its everlasting portal high, And bids the pure in heart behold their God." By his side on another tombstone we read, "Sacred to the memory of Eleanor, wife of Philip Freneau, and daughter of Samuel and Helena Forman, who died September 1st, 1850, aged 86 years 9 months and 20 days." The third book we have mentioned as lying on the desk proves that Freneau was not unmindful of his end, and shows his faith in God, and his deep affection for his loved ones. It, strangely enough, is marked by the firm hand of his early youth, and the trembling one of his old age. On its inner cover it bears the date of his entrance to the Penolopen Latin School, that of his initiation into Princeton College, and also that of his graduation. Through it are versified translations of different Latin verses; and in trembling pencil-strokes of later days, the following lines are traced: "I am growing fit, I hope, for a better world, of which the light of the sun is but a shadow; for I doubt not but God's works here, are what come nearest to his works there; and that a true relish of the beauties of nature is the most easy preparation and gentlest transition to an enjoyment of those of heaven: I'm endeavoring to put my mind into as quiet a situation as I can, to be ready to receive that stroke which, I believe, is coming upon me, and have fully resigned myself to yield to it. The separation of my soul and body is what I could think of with less pain; for I am sure he that made it will take care of it, and in whatever state he pleases it shall be, that state must be right. But I cannot think without tears of being separated from my friends, when their condition is so doubtful, that they may want even such assistance as mine. Sure, it is more merciful to take from us after death all memory of what we loved or pursued here: for else what a torment would it be to a spirit, still to love those creatures it is quite divided from! Unless we suppose, that in a more exalted life, all that we esteemed in this imperfect state will affect us no more, than what we lov'd in our infancy concerns us now."1 On the inner side of the last cover is written, "Leaving the old, both worlds at once they view Who stand upon the threshold of the new.” And again, "Stronger by weakness, wiser men become 1 Letters of Alexander Pope. 2 Waller. |