The lightning & the key: a letter from William Franklin to Joseph Priestley.(Poem)

 
   June 7, 1802 
 
   Exile to exile, England to America, 
   Driven hence by nothing more than faith 
   In our convictions, we commune once more, 
   Old friend, man of science, man of God. 
   Here they torched your house, there they burnt mine. 
   Here your people fear your love of France-- 
   Marat, Danton, and the bonnet rouge-- 
   As mine once feared my fealty to the Crown. 
   Hail, fellow, outcast across the sea! 
   And thanks abundant, deep, long overdue 
   For such words as you imaged up to spice 
   That sky-high tribute to my poor career 
   Splashed in the magazine a few months past. 
 
   Now England numbers me among the great, 
   "One who stood undaunted before the storm." 
   Half my royal wage I draw in praise, 
   Then pension of five hundred pounds a year. 
   And so I wait for night without complaint, 
   Grateful for such grace as sunlight yields 
   On a London balcony in early summer, 
   And letters such as yours that bid exchange 
   For welcome sentiments a bit of lore, 
   The legend of a boy, a kite, a key. 
   Otherwise the tale would die with me. 
   Such kindness from you, my father's friend-- 
   (Whose friendship ever joined me to my father) 
   My late father whom I mourned early and late 
   As reft from me by politics before God-- 
 
   Such kindness in the twilight sounds as sweet 
   As posthumous blessing from his troubled ghost. 
   With all the trackless universe to roam, 
   I think he haunts the same old firesides, 
   Creaking floorboards with his buckled shoes, 
   Or stealing the owl's voice to interrogate 
   Whoever, wakeful, might be listening: "Who! 
   Who's there? Remember me? Who am I now? 
   Who was I when I walked upon the earth? 
   Did anybody know?" 
 
   And so he goes 
   In cocked tricorne, frock-coat, and knee breeches, 
   Wigged or wigless, his broad bald pate, 
   His lips curled in delight of wine and wit 
   And ladies' kisses, heavy-lidded eyes, 
   First to see us through the double lens 
   The world first saw a man behind, bemused 
   As much that he had made the spectacles 
   As that they made folks stop and stare at him. 
   And so he goes, my father, in death as life, 
   Rebel, skeptic, rogue, and scientist. 
   And who should say, 0 man of God, 
   That spirit who prized perfectibility 
   And never knew an end of inquiry, 
   Who should say this one is not improved 
   By death, who sought to profit by all means? 
 
   Joseph, you recall when we were young, 
   My father and I, how I followed him 
   And how he doted on this "natural son" 
   Made in his image, a few inches taller; 
   Leaner I was, more "imperial" some did say. 
   I never knew my mother. He was all to me. 
   He let me choose my horse, my hat, my school, 
   Thinking such freedom vital to character. 
   I would have followed my father anywhere, 
   And did, even into the cannon's mouth. 
   As Captain to his Colonel, at twenty-three 
   I led our cavalry against the French 
   And Indians on the frontier. When peace came 
   I followed him as clerk in the Assembly, 
   Postmaster of the City, then all the land. 
   I was his pupil, factotum, and friend, 
   Partner in those famed experiments, 
   One of which now prompts the letter to hand. 
   (I know I do digress: the ink runs low. 
   I meant to answer you forthwith, 
   All about the day we chased the storm 
   For Truth's sake. But this is science too. 
   Was I not my father's chief experiment?) 
 
   I followed him to England as his aide 
   On the legation. He bid me study law. 
   I read my Blackstone at the Inns of Court: 
   "The King can do no wrong, the King 
   Is absolute, all-perfect and immortal ... " 
   The "round Temple" that turreted shrine 
   To civil liberties, became my Church. 
   And nightly in flickering candlelight beneath 
   High hammer-beams of Middle Temple Hall 
   I dined with the best-born men of England, 
   All of us schooled to rule as gentlemen. 
   In this I passed my father, the day I passed 
   Down the aisle of Westminster Abbey, 
   I, the bastard son of a village printer, 
   Called to the English bar. A gentleman. 
   Well-placed letters from this facile pen 
   Conspired with well-placed friends to fire the comet 
   Of my preferment. In the court, my star 
   Blazed up to eclipse my father's embassy. 
   I'd followed him to England as his aide, 
   But led him home to America like a Lord, 
   By our new King named First Royal Governor. 
 
   Now maybe his rage is gone, the furious gloom 
   In which I found ...