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As a poet, John was a charmer but hardly immortal. Many of his poems were scribbled for young ladies, but this one -- one of my favorites -- is more ribald than most. The identity of the woman for whom it was written is unknown. It was discovered among Sir Henry Clinton's papers, leaving one to wonder if Sir Henry found it after John's death -- perhaps in his office at British headquarters in New York -- and tucked it away as a remembrance of one of his few friends.
The Frantick Lover |
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And shall then another embrace thee, my Fair? Must envy still add to the pangs of despair? Shall I live to behold the reciprocal bliss? Death, death, is a refuge, elysium to this! The star of the evening now bids thee retire; Accurs'd be its orb and extinguish'd its fire! For it shews me my rival, prepared to invade Those charms which at once I admired and obey'd... My insolent rival, more proud of his right, Contemns the sweet office, that soul of delight. Less tender, he seizes thy lips as his prey, And all thy dear limbs the rough summons obey. E'en now more licentious -- rash mortal, forbear! Restrain him, O Venus! Let him, too, despair! Freeze, freeze the swift streams which now hurry to join, And curse him with passions unsated like mine. How weak is my rage his fierce joy to controul. A kiss from thy body shoots life to his soul Thy frost, too, dissolv'd in one current is run And all thy keen feelings are blended in one. Thy limbs from his limbs a new warmth shall acquire, His passions from thine shall redouble their fire, 'Till wreck'd and o'erwhelmed in the storm of delight, Thine ears lose their hearing, thine eyes lose their sight! Here conquest must pause, tho' it ne'er can be cloy'd, To view the rich plunder of beauty enjoy'd; The tresses dishevelled, the bosom display'd, And the wishes of years in a moment repaid. A thousand soft thoughts in thy fancy combine, A thousand wild horrors assemble in mine. Relieve me, kind death, shut the scene from my view, And save me, oh save me, 'ere madness ensue! |
According to her great-granddaughter, Philadelphia belle Peggy Chew treasured her memories of André and the several poems he wrote for her, for the rest of her life -- supposedly to the great annoyace of the man she eventually married, John Eager Howard.1
This silly and slightly suggestive "Epigram," was written when he "saw Peggy in the garden of Cliveden, among the branches of a tree":
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The Hebrews write and those who can Believe an apple tempted man To touch the tree exempt; Tho' tasted at a vast expense, 'T was too delicious to the sense, Not mortally to tempt. But had the tree of knowledge bloomed, Its branches by much fruit perfumed, And here enchants my view-- What mortal Adam's taste could blame, Who would not die to eat the same, When gods might wish a Chew? |
This was "written to Miss Peggy Chew, when returning a bow of ribbon to her, and found after a dance":
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As some rude tower, with moss or ivy crown Seems as if pining o'er its past renown, O'er days when to the skies its turrets rose, And seemed to scorn all elemental foes; Or as in Westminster of ancient fame, The marble monuments around proclaim The passing glories of successive reigns, Whose only remnants now its earth contains; So this sad vestige, only emblem left To soothe the mind of latest joy bereft, Serves but to show how pleasures pass away Like morning dew, before Apollo's ray. If I mistake not, 't is the accomplished Chew, To whom this ornamental bow is due; It's taste like hers, so neat, so void of art, Just as her mind, and gentle as her heart; I haste to send it, to resume its place, For beauty should sorrow o'er a bow's disgrace. |
And finally, a fragment written a farewell present to Peggy just before the British Army left Philadelphia.
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If at the close of war and strife My destiny once more Should in the varied paths of life Conduct me to this shore; Should British banners guard the land, And factions be restrained, And Clivedon's mansion peaceful stand, No more with blood be stained, Say! Wilt thou then receive again, And welcome to thy sight, The youth who bids with stifled pain His sad farewell tonight? |
1 The three poems written for Peggy Chew and her great-granddaughter's comments on them come from the introduction to John André and Sophie Howard Ward, "Major Andre's Story of the 'Mischianza,'" The Century; A Popular Quarterly 47 (1894): 684-691. [ back ]
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