GARDINER.

A musket-ball, death-wing'd, hath pierc'd my groin, And widely op'd the swift curr'nt of my veins.

Bear me then, Soldiers, to that hollow s.p.a.ce, A little hence, just in the hill's decline.

A surgeon there may stop the gushing wound, And gain a short respite to life, that yet I may return, and fight one half hour more.

Then, shall I die in peace, and to my G.o.d, Surrender up, the spirit, which He gave.

SCENE IX.

PUTNAM [_to the American Army_].

Swift-rising fame, on early wing, mounts up, To the convexity of bending Heaven, And writes each name, who fought with us this day, In fairest character, amidst the stars.

The world shall read it, and still talk of us, Who, far out-number'd, twice drove back the foe, With carnage horrid, murm'ring to their ships.

The Ghost of Warren says, enough--I see One thousand veterans, mingled with the dust.

Now, for our sacred honour, and the wound, Which Gard'ner feels, once more we charge--once more, Dear friends, and fence the obscur'd hill With hecatombs of slain. Let every piece Flash, like the fierce-consuming fire of Heaven, And make the smoke, in which they wrap themselves, "A darkness visible."--Now once again, Receive the battle, as a sh.o.r.e of rock The ocean wave. And if at last we yield, Leave many a death, amidst their hollow ranks, To damp the measure, of their dear-bought joy.

SCENE X _and Last_. _Bunkers-Hill._

_The American Army overpower'd by numbers are obliged to retreat._

_Enter HOWE, PIGOT, and CLINTON with the British Army._

RICHARDSON [_a young officer, on the parapet_].

The day is ours, huzza, the day is ours, This last attack has forc'd them to retreat.

CLINTON.

'Tis true, full victory declares for us, But we have dearly, dearly purchas'd it.

Full fifteen hundred of our men lie dead, Who, with their officers, do swell the list Of this day's carnage--On the well-fought hill, Whole ranks cut down, lie struggling with their wounds, Or close their bright eyes, in the shades of night.

No wonder! such incessant musketry, And fire of Cannon, from the hill-top pour'd, Seem'd not the agency of mortal men, But Heaven itself, with snares, and vengeance arm'd, T' oppose our gaining it. E'en when was spent Their ammunition, and fierce Warren slain, Huge stones were hurled from the rocky brow, And war renew'd, by these inveterate; Till Gard'ner wounded, the left wing gave way, And with their shatter'd infantry, the whole, Drawn off by Putnam, to the causeway fled, When from the ships, and batt'ries on the wave They met deep loss, and strew'd the narrow bridge, With lifeless carcases. Oh, such a day, Since Sodom and Gomorrah sunk in flames, Hath not been heard of by the ear of man, Nor hath an eye beheld its parallel.

LORD PIGOT.

The day is ours, but with heart-piercing loss, Of soldiers slain, and gallant officers.

Old Abercrombie, on the field lies dead.

Pitcairn and Sherwin, in sore battle slain.

The gallant reg'ment of Welsh fusileers, To seventeen privates, is this day reduc'd.

The grenadiers stand thinly on the hill, Like the tall fir-trees on the blasted heath, Scorch'd by the autumnal burnings, which have rush'd, With wasting fire fierce through its leafy groves.

Should ev'ry hill by the rebellious foe, So well defended, cost thus dear to us, Not the united forces of the world, Could master them, and the proud rage subdue Of these AMERICANS.--

HOWE.

E'en in an enemy I honour worth, And valour eminent. The vanquish'd foe, In feats of prowess shew their ancestry, And speak their birth legitimate; The sons of Britons, with the genuine flame, Of British heat, and valour in their veins.

What pity 'tis, such excellence of mind, Should spend itself, in the fantastic cause, Of wild-fire liberty.--Warren is dead, And lies unburied, on the smoky hill; But with rich honours he shall be inhum'd, To teach our soldiery, how much we love, E'en in a foe, true worth and n.o.ble fort.i.tude.

Come then, brave soldiers, and take up the dead, Majors, and Col'nels, which are this day slain, And n.o.ble Captains of sweet life bereft.

Fair flowers shall grow upon their gra.s.sy tombs, And fame in tears shall tell their tragedy, To many a widow and soft weeping maid, Or parent woe-ful for an only son, Through mourning _Britain_, and _Hibernia's_ isle.

_Enter BURGOYNE from Boston._

Oft have I read, in the historic page, And witnessed myself, high scenes in war: But this rude day, unparallel'd in time, Has no compet.i.tor--The gazing eye, Of many a soldier, from the chimney-tops, And spires of Boston, witnessed when Howe, With his full thousands, moving up the hill, Receiv'd the onset of the impetuous foe.

The hill itself, like Ida's burning mount, When Jove came down, in terrors, to dismay The Grecian host, enshrouded in thick flames; And round its margin, to the ebbing wave, A town on fire, and rushing from its base, With ruin hideous, and combustion down.

Mean time, deep thunder, from the hollow sides Of the artill'ry, on the hilltop hear'd, With roar of thunder, and loud mortars play'd, From the tall ships, and batt'ries on the wave, Bade yon blue ocean, and wide heaven resound.

A scene like which, perhaps, no time shall know, Till Heav'n with final ruin fires the ball, Burns up the cities, and the works of men, And wraps the mountains in one gen'ral blaze.

[_Exeunt._

_The End._

EPILOGUE

_Written by a Gentleman of the Army._

_Supposed to be spoken, immediately after the Battle; by LIEUTENANT COLONEL WEBB, Aide-de-camp to GENERAL PUTNAM._

The field is theirs, but dearly was it bought, Thus long defended and severely fought.

Now pale-fac'd death sits brooding o'er the strand, And views the carnage of his ruthless hand.

But why my heart this deep unbidden sigh, Why steals the tear, soft trickling from the eye?

Is FREEDOM master'd by our late defeat, Or HONOUR wounded by a brave retreat?

'Tis nature dictates; and in pride's despite, I mourn my brethren slaughter'd in the fight.

Th' insulting foe now revels o'er the ground, Yet flush'd with victory, they feel the wound.

Embru'd in gore, they bleed from ev'ry part, And deep wounds rankle at _Britannia's_ heart.

O fatal conquest! Speak thou crimson'd plain, Now press'd beneath the weight of hundreds slain!

There heaps of _British_ youth promiscuous lie, Here, murder'd FREEMEN catch the wand'ring eye.

Observe yon stripling bath'd in purple gore, He bleeds for FREEDOM on his native sh.o.r.e.

His livid eyes in drear convulsions roll, While from his wounds escapes the flutt'ring soul, Breathless and naked on th' ensanguin'd plain, Midst friends and brothers, sons and fathers slain.

No pitying hand his languid eyes to close, He breathes his last amidst insulting foes; His body plunder'd, ma.s.sacred, abus'd; By Christians--Christian fun'ral rites refus'd-- Thrown as a carrion in the public way, To Dogs, to Britons, and to Birds a prey.

Enwrapt in sulph'rous flame and clouds of smoke, Brave Gard'ner sinks beneath the deadly stroke, And Warren bleeds to grace the b.l.o.o.d.y strife, And for his injur'd country gives his life.

Yet while his mighty soul ascends the skies, On earth his blood for ten-fold vengeance cries.

Great spirit rest--by Heaven it is decreed, Thy murd'ring tyrants by the sword shall bleed.

E'en racks and gibbets would but consecrate, And death repeated be too kind a fate.

The sword is drawn, in peace no more to rest, Till justice bathes it in some tyrant's breast.

Honour my weapon with the glorious task, And let me stab, 'tis all the boon I ask.

Kind pow'rs, beneath your all-protecting shield, I now unsheathe my sword, and take the field Sure of success, with this sweet comfort giv'n, Who fights for FREEDOM,--fights the cause of HEAV'N.

AN ODE

_on the Battle of BUNKERS-HILL._

_Sung and Acted by a Soldier in a Military Habit, with his Firelock, &c._