  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 shore. 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, massacred, 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, And Warren bleeds to grace the bloody 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. |
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