Not strange to your maturer thought, Burgoyne, This matter will appear. A people brave, Who never yet, of luxury, or soft Delights, effeminate, and false, have tasted.

But, through hate of chains, and slav'ry, suppos'd, Forsake their mountain tops, and rush to arms.

Oft have I heard their valour published: Their perseverance, and untamable, Fierce mind, when late they fought with us, and drove, The French encroaching on their settlements, Back to their frozen lakes. Or when with us On Cape Breton, they stormed Louisburg.

With us in Canada, they took Quebec; And at the Havannah, these NEW-ENGLAND MEN, Led on by Putnam, acted gallantly.

I had a brother once, who in that war, With fame commanded them, and when he fell, Not unlamented; for these warriors, So brave themselves, and sensible of merit, Erected him a costly monument; And much it grieves me that I draw my sword, For this late insurrection and revolt, To chastise them. Would to Almighty G.o.d, The task unnatural, had been a.s.sign'd, Elsewhere. But since by Heaven, determined, Let's on, and wipe the day of LEXINGTON, Thus soil'd, quite from our soldiers' memories.

This reinforcement, which with us have fail'd, In many a transport, from _Britannia's_ sh.o.r.es, Will give new vigour to the Royal Arms, And crush rebellion, in its infancy.

Let's on, and from this siege, calamitous, a.s.sert our liberty; nay, rather die, Transfix'd in battle, by their bayonets, Than thus remain, the scoff and ridicule Of gibing wits, and paltry gazetteers, On this, their madding continent, who cry, Where is the _British_ valour: that renown Which spoke in thunder, to the Gallic sh.o.r.es?

That spirit is evaporate, that fire; Which erst distinguish'd them, that flame; And gen'rous energy of soul, which fill'd Their Henrys, Edwards, thunder-bolts of war; Their Hampdens, Marlboroughs, and the immortal Wolfe, On the Abraham heights, victorious.

_Britannia's_ genius, is unfortunate, And flags, say they, when Royal tyranny Directs her arms. This let us then disprove, In combat speedily, and take from them, The wantonness of this fell pride, and boasting.

GAGE.

Tho' much I dread the issue of the attempt, So full of hazard, and advent'rous spirit; Yet since your judgment, and high skill in arms, From full experience, boldly prompts you on, I give my voice, and when one day hath pa.s.s'd, In whose swift hours, may be wrought, highly up, The resolution, of the soldiery, With soothing words, and ample promises, Of rich rewards, in lands and settlements, From the confiscate property throughout, These rebel colonies, at length subdu'd; Then march we forth, beat up their drowsy camp, And with the sun, to this safe capital, Return, rich, with the triumphs of the war.

And be our plan, that which brave Haldiman, Ere yet recall'd, advis'd to us. Let first, Brave Howe, and Clinton, on that western point, Land with the transports, and mean time Burgoyne, With the artillery, pour sharp cannonade, Along the neck, and sweep, the beachy plain, Which lies to Roxborough, where yon western stream, Flowing from Cambridge, mixes with the Bay.

Thus, these AMERICANS, shall learn to dread, The force of discipline, and skill in arms.

ACT III.

SCENE I. _Bunkers-Hill._

_Enter GARDINER, with seven hundred men._

GARDINER.

This is the hill, brave countrymen, whose brow We mean to fortify. A strong redoubt, With saliant angles, and embrasures deep, Be speedily thrown up. Let each himself, Not undeserving, of our choice approve, For out of thousands, I have challeng'd you, To this bold enterprise, as men of might, And valour eminent, and such this day, I trust, will honour you. Let each his spade, And pick-axe, vig'rously, in this hard soil, Where I have laid, the curved line, exert.

For now the morning star, bright Lucifer, Peers on the firmament, and soon the day, Flush'd with the golden sun, shall visit us.

Then gallant countrymen, should faithless Gage, Pour forth his lean, and half-starv'd myrmidons; We'll make them taste our cartridges, and know, What rugged steel, our bayonets are made of; Or if o'er charg'd, with numbers, bravely fall, Like those three hundred at Thermopylae, And give our Country, credit in our deaths.

ACT IV.

SCENE I. _Boston._

GAGE [_solus_].

Oh, sweet tranquillity, and peace of soul, That in the bosom of the cottager, Tak'st up thy residence--cannot the beams, Of royal sunshine, call thee to my breast?

Fair honour, waits on thee, renown abroad, And high dominion, o'er this Continent, Soon as the spirit, of rebellious war, Is scourg'd into obedience. Why then, ye G.o.ds, This inward gnawing, and remorse of thought, For perfidy, and breach of promises!

Why should the spouse, or weeping infant babe, Or meek ey'd virgin, with her sallow cheek, The rose by famine, wither'd out of it; Or why the father, or his youthful son, By me detain'd, from all their relatives, And, in low dungeons, and, in Gaols chain'd down, Affect my spirit, when the mighty cause, Of _George_ and _Britain_, is endangered?

For n.o.bly struggling, in the cause of kings, We claim the high, the just prerogative, To rule mankind, and with an iron rod, Exact submission, due, tho' absolute.

What tho' they style me, villain, murderer, And imprecate from Heaven, dire thunderbolts, To crush my purposes--Was that a gun, Which thunders o'er the wave?--Or is it guilt, That plays the coward, with my trembling heart, And cools the blood, with frightful images.

O guilt, thy blackness, hovers on the mind, Nor can the morning dissipate thy shades.

Yon ruddy morn, which over BUNKERS-HILL, Advancing slowly, blushes to the bay, And tips with gold the spires of CHARLES-TOWN.

_Enter BURGOYNE._

The rebel foe, grown yet more insolent, By that small loss, or rout, at LEXINGTON, Prevent our purpose and the night by-past, Have push'd intrenchments, and some flimsy works, With rude achievement, on the rocky brow, Of that tall hill. A ship-boy, with the day, From the tall mast-head, of the Admiral, Descry'd their aim, and gave the swift alarm.

Our gla.s.ses mark, but one small regiment there, Yet, ev'ry hour we languish in delay, Inspires fresh hope, and fills their pig'my souls, With thoughts of holding it. You hear the sound Of spades and pick-axes, upon the hill, Incessant, pounding, like old Vulcan's forge, Urg'd by the Cyclops.

_Enter HOWE._

To your alarm posts, officers; come, gallant souls, Let's out, and drive them from that eminence, On which the foe, doth earth himself.

I relish not, such haughty neighbourhood.

Give orders, swiftly, to the Admiral, That some stout ship heave up the narrow bay, And pour indignant, from the full-tide wave, Fierce cannonade, across the isthmus point, That no a.s.sistance may be brought to them.

If but seven hundred, we can treat with them.

Yes, strew the hill, with death, and carca.s.ses, And offer up, this band, a hecatomb, To _Britain's_ glory, and the cause of kings.

[_Exeunt BURGOYNE and HOWE._

GAGE [_solus_].

May Heaven protect us, from their rage, I say, When but a boy, I dream'd of death in bed, And ever since that time, I hated things Which put him, like a pair of spectacles, Before my eyes. The thought lies deep in fate, Nor can a mortal see the bottom of it.

'Tis here--'Tis there--I could philosophize-- Eternity, is like a winding sheet-- The seven commandments like--I think there's seven-- I scratch my head--but yet in vain I scratch-- Oh Bute, and Dartmouth, knew ye what I feel, You sure would pity an old drinking man, That has more heart-ake, than philosophy. [_Exit._

SCENE II. _HOWE with the British Army._

HOWE.

The day at length, propitious shews itself, And with full beams of majesty, the sun, Hath bless'd its fair nativity; when Heaven, Brave soldiers, and the cause of kings, Calls on the spirit of your loyalty, To chastise this rebellion, and tread down, Such foul ingrat.i.tude--such monstrous shape, Of horrid liberty, which spurns that love-- That fond maternal tenderness of soul, Which on this dreary coast, first planted them: Restrain'd the rage, of murdering savages, Which, with fierce inroad, on their settlements, Made frequent war--struck down the arm of France, Just rais'd, to crush them, in their infancy: And since that time, have bade their cities grow, To marts of trade: call'd fair-ey'd commerce forth, To share dominion, on the distant wave, And visit every clime, and foreign sh.o.r.e.

Yet this, brave soldiers, is the proud return, For the best blood of _England_, shed for them.

Behold yon hill, where fell rebellion rears Her snake-stream'd ensign, and would seem to brave With scarce seven hundred, this sea-bounded Camp, Where may be counted, full ten thousand men, That in the war with France so late, acquir'd Loud fame, and shook the other continent.

Come on, brave soldiers, seize your gleaming arms, And let this day, in after times be held, As Minden famous, and each hostile field, Where _British_ valour shone victorious.

The time moves slow, which enviously detains, Our just resentment from these traitors' heads.

Their richest farms, and cultur'd settlements, By winding river, or extensive bay, Shall be your first reward. Our n.o.ble king, As things confiscate, holds their property, And in rich measure, will bestow on you, Who face the frowns, and labour of this day.

He that outlives this battle, shall ascend, In t.i.tled honour, to the height of state, Dukedoms, and baronies, midst these our foes, In tributary va.s.salage, kept down, Shall be your fair inheritance. Come on, Beat up th' heroic sound of war. The word Is, _George_ our sov'reign, and _Britannia's_ arms.

ACT V.

SCENE I. _Bunkers-Hill._

_WARREN with the American Army._

WARREN.

To arms, brave countrymen, for see the foe Comes forth to battle, and would seem to try, Once more, their fortune in decisive war.

Three thousand, 'gainst seven hundred, rang'd this day, Shall give the world, an ample specimen, What strength, and n.o.ble confidence, the sound Of Liberty inspires. That Liberty, Which, not the thunder of Bellona's voice, With fleets, and armies, from the _British_ Sh.o.r.e, Shall wrest from us. Our n.o.ble ancestors, Out-brav'd the tempests, of the h.o.a.ry deep, And on these hills, uncultivate, and wild, Sought an asylum, from despotic sway; A short asylum, for that envious power, With persecution dire, still follows us.

At first, they deem'd our charters forfeited, Next, our just rights, in government, abridg'd.

Then, thrust in viceroys, and bashaws, to rule, With lawless sovereignty. Now added force, Of standing armies, to secure their sway.

Much have we suffer'd from the licens'd rage, Of brutal soldiery, in each fair town.