  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 Gods, 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 nobly 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, 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 glasses 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 assistance may be brought to them. If but seven hundred, we can treat with them. Yes, strew the hill, with death, and carcasses, And offer up, this band, a hecatomb, To Britain's glory, and the cause of kings. [ExeuntBurgoyneandHowe. 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, 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 ingratitude—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 shore. 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, 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 titled honour, to the height of state, Dukedoms, and baronies, midst these our foes, In tributary vassalage, 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. |
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