Scene I. In Boston.

Selectman, Citizen.

Selectman.

At length, it seems, the bloody flag is hung out, the ministry and parliament, ever studious in mischief, and bent on our destruction, have ordered troops and ships of war to shut our ports, and starve us into submission.

Citizen. And compel us to be slaves; I have heard so. It is a fashionable way to requite us for our loyalty, for the present we made them of Louisburg, for our protection at Duquesne, for the assistance we gave them at Quebec, Martinico, Guadaloupe and the Havannah. Blast their councils, spurn their ingratitude! Soul of Pepperel! whither art thou fled?

Selectman. They seem to be guided by some secret demon; this stopping our ports and depriving us of all trade is cruel, calculated to starve and beggar thousands of families, more spiteful than politic, more to their own disadvantage than ours: But we can resolve to do without trade; it will be the means of banishing luxury, which has ting'd the simplicity and spotless innocence of our once happy asylum.

Citizen. We thank heaven, we have the necessaries of life in abundance, even to an exuberant plenty; and how oft have our hospitable tables fed numbers of those ungrateful monsters, who would now, if they could, famish us?

Selectman. No doubt, as we abound in those temporal blessings, it has tempted them to pick our pockets by violence, in hopes of treasures more to their minds.

Citizen. In that these thirsters after gold and human blood will be disappointed. No Perus or Mexicos here they'll find; but the demon you speak of, tho' he acts in secret, is notoriously known. Lord Paramount is that demon, that bird of prey, that ministerial cormorant, that waits to devour, and who first thought to disturb the repose of America; a wretch, no friend to mankind, who acts thro' envy and avarice, like Satan, who 'scap'd from hell to disturb the regions of paradise; after ransacking Britain and Hibernia for gold, the growth of hell, to feed his luxury, now waits to rifle the bowels of America.

Selectman. May he prove more unsuccessful than Satan; blind politics, rank infatuation, madness detestable, the concomitants of arbitrary power! They can never think to succeed; but should they conquer, they'll find that he who overcometh by force and blood, hath overcome but half his foe. Capt. Preston's massacre is too recent in our memories; and if a few troops dar'd to commit such hellish unprovok'd barbarities, what may we not expect from legions arm'd with vengeance, whose leaders harbour principles repugnant to freedom, and possess'd with more than diabolical notions? Surely our friends will oppose them with all the power heaven has given them.

Citizen. Nothing more certain; each citizen and each individual inhabitant of America are bound by the ties of nature; the laws of God and man justify such a procedure; passive obedience for passive slaves, and non-resistance for servile wretches who know not, neither deserve, the sweets of liberty. As for me and my house, thank God, such detestable doctrine never did, nor ever shall, enter over my threshold.

Selectman. Would all America were so zealous as you.—The appointment of a general Continental Congress was a judicious measure, and will prove the salvation of this new world, where counsel mature, wisdom and strength united; it will prove a barrier, a bulwark, against the encroachments of arbitrary power.

Citizen. I much approve of the choice of a congress; America is young, she will be to it like a tender nursing mother, she will give it the paps of virtue to suck, cherish it with the milk of liberty, and fatten it on the cream of patriotism; she will train it up in its youth, and teach it to shun the poison of British voluptuousness, and instruct it to keep better company. Let us, my friend, support her all in our power, and set on foot an immediate association; they will form an intrenchment, too strong for ministerial tyranny to o'erleap.

Selectman. I am determined so to do, it may prevent the farther effusion of blood.

Scene II.

Enter a Minister.

Minister.

My friends, I yet will hail you good morrow, tho' I know not how long we may be indulg'd that liberty to each other; doleful tidings I have to tell.

Selectman. With sorrow we have heard it, good morrow, sir.

Minister. Wou'd to God it may prove false, and that it may vanish like the dew of the morning.

Citizen. Beyond a doubt, sir, it's too true.

Minister. Perhaps, my friends, you have not heard all.

Selectman. We have heard too much, of the troops and ships coming over, we suppose you mean; we have not heard more, if more there be.

Minister. Then worse I have to tell, tidings which will raise the blood of the patriot, and put your virtue to the proof, will kindle such an ardent love of liberty in your breasts, as time will not be able to exterminate—

Citizen. Pray, let us hear it, I'm all on fire.

Selectman. I'm impatient to know it, welcome or unwelcome.

Minister. Such as it is, take it; your charter is annihilated; you are all, all declared rebels; your estates are to be confiscated; your patrimony to be given to those who never labour'd for it; popery to be established in the room of the true catholic faith; the Old South, and other houses of our God, converted perhaps into nunneries, inquisitions, barracks and common jails, where you will perish with want and famine, or suffer an ignominious death; your wives, children, dearest relations and friends forever separated from you in this world, without the prospect of receiving any comfort or consolation from them, or the least hope of affording any to them.

Selectman. Perish the thought!

Citizen. I've heard enough!—To arms! my dear friends, to arms! and death or freedom be our motto!

Minister. A noble resolution! Posterity will crown the urn of the patriot who consecrates his talents to virtue and freedom; his name shall not be forgot; his reputation shall bloom with unfading verdure, while the name of the tyrant, like his vile body, shall moulder in the dust. Put your trust in the Lord of hosts, he is your strong tower, he is your helper and defense, he will guide and strengthen the arm of flesh, and scatter your enemies like chaff.

Selectman. Let us not hesitate.

Citizen. Not a single moment;—'tis like to prove a mortal strife, a never-ending contest.

Minister. Delays may be dangerous.—Go and awake your brethren that sleep;—rouse them up from their lethargy and supineness, and join, with confidence, temporal with spiritual weapons. Perhaps they be now landing, and this moment, this very moment, may be the last of your liberty. Prepare yourselves—be ready—stand fast—ye know not the day nor the hour. May the Ruler of all send us liberty and life. Adieu! my friends.

[Exeunt.

Scene III. In a street in Boston.

Frequent town-meetings and consultations amongst the inhabitants;—Lord Boston arrives with the forces and ships;—lands and fortifies Boston.

Whig and Tory.

Whig. I have said and done all that man could say or do.—'Tis wrong, I insist upon it, and time will show it, to suffer them to take possession of Castle William and fortify Boston Neck.

Tory. I cannot see, good sir, of what advantage it will be to them;—they've only a mind, I suppose, to keep their soldiers from being inactive, which may prejudice their health.

Whig. I wish it may prove so, I would very gladly confess your superior knowledge in military manoeuvres; but till then, suffer me to tell you, it's a stroke the most fatal to us,—no less, sir, but to cut off the communication between the town and country, making prisoners of us all by degrees, and give 'em an opportunity of making excursions, and in a short time subdue us without resistance.

Tory. I think your fears are groundless.

Whig. Sir, my reason is not to be trifled with. Do you not see or hear ev'ry day of insults and provocations to the peaceable inhabitants? This is only a prelude. Can men of spirit bear forever with such usage? I know not what business they have here at all.

Tory. I suppose they're come to protect us.

Whig. Damn such protectors, such cut-throat villains; protect us? from what? from whom?—

Tory. Nay, sir, I know not their business;—let us yet bear with them till we know the success of the petition from the Congress;—if unfavourable, then it will be our time.

Whig. Then, I fear, it will be too late; all that time we lose, and they gain ground; I have no notion of trusting to the success of petitions, waiting twelve months for no answer at all. Our assemblies have petitioned often, and as often in vain; 't would be a miracle in these days to hear of an American petition being granted; their omnipotences, their demi-godships (as they think themselves) no doubt think it too great a favour done us to throw our petitions under their table, much less vouchsafe to read them.

Tory. You go too far;—the power of King, Lords and Commons is uncontroulable.

Whig. With respect to tyrannising they would make it so, if they could, I know, but there's a good deal to be said and done first; we have more than half the bargain to make.

Tory. Sure you would not go to dispute by arms with Great-Britain.

Whig. Sure I would not suffer you to pick my pocket, sir.

Tory. If I did, the law is open for you—

Whig. I have but a poor opinion of law, when the devil sits judge.

Tory. What would you do then, sir, if I was to pick your pocket?

Whig. Break your head, sir—

Tory. Sure you don't mean as you say, sir—

Whig. I surely do—try me, sir—

Tory. Excuse me, sir, I am not of your mind, I would avoid every thing that has the appearance of rashness.—Great-Britain's power, sir—

Whig. Great-Britain's power, sir, is too much magnified, 't will soon grow weak, by endeavouring to make slaves of American freemen; we are not Africans yet, neither bond-slaves.—You would avoid and discourage every thing that has the appearance of patriotism, you mean.—

Tory. Who? me, sir?

Whig. Yes, you, sir;—you go slyly pimping, spying and sneaking about, cajoling the ignorant, and insinuating bugbear notions of Great-Britain's mighty power into weak people's ears, that we may tamely give all up, and you be rewarded, perhaps, with the office of judge of the admiralty, or continental hangman, for ought I know.

Tory. Who? me, sir?

Whig. Aye, you, sir;—and let me tell you, sir, you've been long suspected—

Tory. Of what, sir?

Whig. For a rank Tory, sir.

Tory. What mean you, sir?

Whig. I repeat it again—suspected to be an enemy to your country.

Tory. By whom, sir? Can you show me an instance?

Whig. From your present discourse I suspect you—and from your connections and artful behaviour all suspect you.

Tory. Can you give me a proof?

Whig. Not a point blank proof, as to my own knowledge; you're so much of a Jesuit, you have put it out of my power;—but strong circumstances by information, such as amount to a proof in the present case, sir, I can furnish you with.

Tory. Sir, you may be mistaken.

Whig. 'Tis not possible, my informant knows you too well.

Tory. Who is your informant, sir?

Whig. A gentleman, sir; and if you'll give yourself the trouble to walk with me, I'll soon produce him.

Tory. Another time; I cannot stay now;—'tis dinner time.

Whig. That's the time to find him.

Tory. I cannot stay now.

Whig. We'll call at your house then.

Tory. I dine abroad, sir.

Whig. Be gone, you scoundrel! I'll watch your waters; 'tis time to clear the land of such infernal vermin.

[Exeunt both different ways.

Scene IV. In Boston, while the Regulars were flying from Lexington.

Lord Boston surrounded by his guards and a few officers.

Lord Boston. If Colonel Smith succeeds in his embassy, and I think there's no doubt of it, I shall have the pleasure this ev'ning, I expect, of having my friends Hancock and Adams's good company; I'll make each of them a present of a pair of handsome iron ruffles, and Major Provost shall provide a suitable entertainment for them in his apartment.

Officer. Sure they'll not be so unpolite as to refuse your Excellency's kind invitation.

Lord Boston. Shou'd they, Colonel Smith and Major Pitcairn have my orders to make use of all their rhetoric and the persuasive eloquence of British thunder.

Enter a Messenger in haste.

Messenger. I bring your Excellency unwelcome tidings—

Lord Boston. For heaven's sake! from what quarter?

Messenger. From Lexington plains.

Lord Boston. 'Tis impossible!

Messenger. Too true, sir.

Lord Boston. Say—what is it? Speak what you know.

Messenger. Colonel Smith is defeated, and fast retreating.

Lord Boston. Good God!—What does he say? Mercy on me!

Messenger. They're flying before the enemy.

Lord Boston. Britons turn their backs before the Rebels!—The Rebels put Britons to flight?—Said you not so?

Messenger. They are routed, sir;—they are flying this instant;—the Provincials are numerous, and hourly gaining strength;—they have nearly surrounded our troops. A reinforcement, sir—a timely succour may save the shatter'd remnant Speedily! speedily, sir! or they're irretrievably lost!

Lord Boston. Good God! What does he say? Can it be possible?

Messenger. Lose no time, sir.

Lord Boston. What can I do?—Oh dear!

Officer. Draw off a detachment—form a brigade; prepare part of the train; send for Lord Percy; let the drums beat to arms.

Lord Boston. Aye, do, Captain; you know how, better than I. (Exit Officer.) Did the Rebels dare to fire on the king's troops? Had they the courage? Guards, keep round me.

Messenger. They're like lions; they have killed many of our bravest officers and men; and if not checked instantly, will totally surround them, and make the whole prisoners. This is no time to parley, sir.

Lord Boston. No, indeed; what will become of me?

Enter Earl Percy.

Earl Percy. Your orders, sir.

Lord Boston. Haste, my good Percy, immediately take command of the brigade of reinforcement, and fly to the assistance of poor Smith!—Lose no time, lest they be all cut off, and the Rebels improve their advantage, and be upon us; and God knows what quarter they'll give.—Haste, my noble Earl!—Speedily!—Speedily!—Where's my guard?

Earl Percy. I'm gone, sir.

[Exeunt Percy and Officers—drums beating to arms.

Lord Boston. What means this flutt'ring round my heart? this unusual chilness? Is it fear? No, it cannot be, it must proceed from my great anxiety, my perturbation of mind for the fate of my countrymen. A drowsiness hangs o'er my eyelids;—fain would I repose myself a short time;—but I must not;—I must wait;—I'll to the top of yon eminence,—there I shall be safer. Here I cannot stay;—there I may behold something favourable to calm this tumult in my breast.—But, alas! I fear—Guards, attend me.

[Exeunt Lord Boston and Guards.

Scene V. Lord Boston and Guards on a hill in Boston, that overlooks Charlestown.

Lord Boston. Clouds of dust and smoke intercept my sight; I cannot see; I hear the noise of cannon—Percy's cannon—Grant him success!

Officer of Guard. Methinks, sir, I see British colours waving.

Lord Boston. Some ray of hope.—Have they got so near?—Captain, keep a good lookout; tell me every thing you see. My eyes are wondrous dim.

Officer. The two brigades have join'd—Now Admiral Tombstone bellows his lower tier on the Provincials. How does your Excellency?

Lord Boston. Right;—more hope still.—I'm bravely to what I was. Which way do our forces tend?

Officer. I can distinguish nothing for a certainty now; such smoke and dust!

Lord Boston. God grant Percy courage!

Officer. His ancestors were brave, sir.

Lord Boston. Aye, that's no rule—no rule, Captain; so were mine.—A heavy firing now.—The Rebels must be very numerous—

Officer. They're like caterpillars; as numerous as the locusts of Egypt.

Lord Boston. Look out, Captain, God help you, look out.

Officer. I do, sir.

Lord Boston. What do you see now? Hark! what dreadful noise!

One of the Guard. [Aside.] How damn'd afraid he is.

Another of the Guard. [Aside.] He's one of your chimney corner Generals—an old granny.

Officer. If I mistake not, our troops are fast retreating; their fire slackens; the noise increases.

Lord Boston. Oh, Captain, don't say so!

Officer. 'Tis true, sir, they're running—the enemy shout victory.

Lord Boston. Upon your honour?—say—

Officer. Upon my honour, sir, they're flying t'wards Charlestown. Percy's beat;—I'm afraid he's lost his artillery.

Lord Boston. Then 'tis all over—the day is lost—what more can we do?

Officer. We may, with the few troops left in Boston, yet afford them some succour, and cover their retreat across the water; 'tis impossible to do more.

Lord Boston. Go instantly; I'll wait your return. Try your utmost to prevent the Rebels from crossing. Success attend you, my dear Captain, God prosper you! [Exit Officer.] Alas! alas! my glory's gone; my honour's stain'd. My dear guards, don't leave me, and you shall have plenty of porter and sour-crout.

Scene VI. Roger and Dick, two shepherds near Lexington, after the defeat and flight of the Regulars.

Roger. Whilst early looking, Dick, ere the sun was seen to tinge the brow of the mountain, for my flock of sheep, nor dreaming of approaching evil, suddenly mine eyes beheld from yon hill a cloud of dust arise at a small distance; the intermediate space were thick set with laurels, willows, evergreens, and bushes of various kinds, the growth of wild nature, and which hid the danger from my eyes, thinking perchance my flock had thither stray'd; I descended, and straight onward went; but, Dick, judge you my thoughts at such a disappointment: Instead of my innocent flock of sheep, I found myself almost encircled by a herd of ravenous British wolves.

Dick. Dangerous must have been your situation, Roger, whatever were your thoughts.

Roger. I soon discovered my mistake; finding a hostile appearance, I instantly turn'd myself about, and fled to alarm the shepherds.

Dick. Did they pursue you?

Roger. They did; but having the start, and being acquainted with the by-ways, I presently got clear of their voracious jaws.

Dick. A lucky escape, indeed, Roger; and what route did they take after that?

Roger. Onwards, t'wards Lexington, devouring geese, cattle and swine, with fury and rage, which, no doubt, was increased by their disappointment; and what may appear strange to you Dick (tho' no more strange than true), is, they seem'd to be possessed of a kind of brutish music, growling something like our favourite tune Yankee Doodle (perhaps in ridicule), till it were almost threadbare, seeming vastly pleased (monkey-like) with their mimickry, as tho' it provoked us much.

Dick. Nature, Roger, has furnish'd some brute animals with voices, or, more properly speaking, with organs of sound that nearly resemble the human. I have heard of crocodiles weeping like a child, to decoy the unwary traveller, who is no sooner within their reach, but they seize and devour instantly.

Roger. Very true, Dick, I have read of the same; and these wolves, being of the canine breed, and having the properties of blood-hounds, no doubt are possess'd of a more acute sense of smelling, more reason, instinct, sagacity, or what shall I call it? than all other brutes. It might have been a piece of cunning of theirs, peculiar to them, to make themselves pass for shepherds, and decoy our flocks; for, as you know, Dick, all our shepherds both play and sing Yankee Doodle, our sheep and lambs are as well acquainted with that tune as ourselves, and always make up to us whene'er they hear the sound.

Dick. Yes, Roger; and now you put me in mind of it I'll tell you of something surprising in my turn: I have an old ram and an old ewe, that, whenever they sing Yankee Doodle together, a skilful musician can scarcely distinguish it from the bass and tenor of an organ.

Roger. Surprising indeed, Dick, nor do I in the least doubt it; and why not, as well as Balaam's ass, speak? and I might add, many other asses, now-a-days; and yet, how might that music be improved by a judicious disposition of its various parts, by the addition of a proper number of sheep and young lambs; 't would then likewise resemble the counter, counter tenor, treble, and finest pipes of an organ, and might be truly called nature's organ; methinks, Dick, I could forever sit and hear such music,

Dick. Delightful, indeed; I'll attempt it with what little skill I have in music; we may then defy these wolves to imitate it, and thereby save our flocks: I am well convinced, Roger, these wolves intended it rather as a decoy than by way of ridicule, because they live by cunning and deception; besides, they could never mean to ridicule a piece of music, a tune, of which such brutes cannot be supposed to be judges, and, which is allowed by the best masters of music to be a composition of the most sublime kind, and would have done honour to a Handel or a Correllius. Well, go on, Roger, I long to hear the whole.

Roger. When they came to Lexington, where a flock of our innocent sheep and young lambs, as usual, were feeding and sporting on the plain, these dogs of violence and rapine with haughty stride advanc'd, and berated them in a new and unheard of language to us.

Dick. I suppose learn'd at their own fam'd universities—

Roger. No doubt; they had teachers among them—two old wolves their leaders, not unlike in features to Smith and Pitcairn, as striving to outvie each other in the very dregs of brutal eloquence, and more than Billingsgate jargon, howl'd in their ears such a peal of new-fangled execrations, and hell-invented oratory, till that day unheard in New-England, as struck the whole flock with horror, and made them for a while stand aghast, as tho' all the wolves in the forest had broke loose upon them.

Dick. Oh, shocking!—Roger, go on.

Roger. Not content with this, their murdering leaders, with premeditated malice, keen appetite, and without provocation, gave the howl for the onset, when instantly the whole herd, as if the devil had entered into them, ran violently down the hill, and fixed their talons and jaws upon them, and as quick as lightning eight innocent young lambs fell a sacrifice to their fury, and victims to their rapacity; the very houses of our God were no longer a sanctuary; many they tore to pieces, and some at the very foot of the altar; others were dragged out as in a wanton, gamesome mood.

Dick. Barbarity inexpressible! more than savage cruelty! I hope you'll make their master pay for 'em; there is a law of this province, Roger, which obliges the owner of such dogs to pay for the mischief they do.

Roger. I know it, Dick; he shall pay, never fear, and that handsomely too; he has paid part of it already.

Dick. Who is their master, Roger?

Roger. One Lord Paramount; they call him a free-booter; a fellow who pretends to be proprietor of all America, and says he has a deed for it, and chief ranger of all the flocks, and pretends to have a patent for it; has been a long time in the practice of killing and stealing sheep in England and Ireland, and had like to have been hang'd for it there, but was reprieved by the means of his friend George—I forgot his other name—not Grenville—not George the Second—but another George—

Dick. It's no matter, he'll be hang'd yet; he has sent his dogs to a wrong place, and lugg'd the wrong sow by the ear; he should have sent them to Newfoundland, or Kamchatka, there's no sheep there—But never mind, go on, Roger.

Roger. Nor was their voracious appetites satiated there; they rush'd into the town of Concord, and proceeded to devour every thing that lay in their way; and those brute devils, like Sampson's foxes (and as tho' they were men), thrice attempted with firebrands to destroy our corn, our town-house and habitations.

Dick. Heavens! Could not all this provoke you?

Roger. It did; rage prompted us at length, and found us arms 'gainst such hellish mischief to oppose.

Dick. Oh, would I had been there!

Roger. Our numbers increasing, and arm'd with revenge, we in our turn play'd the man; they, unus'd to wounds, with hideous yelling soon betook themselves to a precipitate and confused flight, nor did we give o'er the chase, till Phoebus grew drowsy, bade us desist, and wished us a good night.

Dick. Of some part of their hasty retreat I was a joyful spectator, I saw their tongues lolling out of their mouths, and heard them pant like hunted wolves indeed.

Roger. Did you not hear how their mirth was turn'd into mourning? their fury into astonishment? how soon they quitted their howling Yankee Doodle, and chang'd their notes to bellowing? how nimbly (yet against their will) they betook themselves to dancing? And he was then the bravest dog that beat time the swiftest, and footed Yankee Doodle the nimblest.

Dick. Well pleased, Roger, was I with the chase, and glorious sport it was: I oft perceiv'd them tumbling o'er each other heels over head; nor did one dare stay to help his brother—but, with bloody breech, made the best of his way—nor ever stopped till they were got safe within their lurking-holes—

Roger. From whence they have not the courage to peep out, unless four to one, except (like a skunk) forc'd by famine.

Dick. May this be the fate of all those prowling sheep-stealers, it behooves the shepherds to double the watch, to take uncommon precaution and care of their tender flocks, more especially as this is like to be an uncommon severe winter, by the appearance of wolves, so early in the season—but, hark!—Roger, methinks I hear the sound of melody warbling thro' the grove—Let's sit a while, and partake of it unseen.

Roger. With all my heart.—Most delightful harmony! This is the First of May; our shepherds and nymphs are celebrating our glorious St. Tammany's day; we'll hear the song out, and then join in the frolic, and chorus it o'er and o'er again—This day shall be devoted to joy and festivity.

Song.

[Tune. The hounds are all out, &c.]

1.

2.

3.

4.

5.

6.

7.

8.

9.

10.

11.

12.

13.

14.

15.

16.

17.

18.

19.

20.

21.

Dick. What a seraphic voice! how it enlivens my soul! Come away, away, Roger, the moments are precious.

[Exeunt Dick and Roger.

Scene VII. In a chamber, near Boston, the morning after the battle of Bunkers-Hill.

Clarissa. How lovely is this new-born day!—The sun rises with uncommon radiance after the most gloomy night my wearied eyes ever knew.—The voice of slumber was not heard—the angel of sleep was fled—and the awful whispers of solemnity and silence prevented my eye-lids from closing.—No wonder—the terrors and ideas of yesterday—such a scene of war—of tumult—hurry and hubbub—of horror and destruction—the direful noise of conflict—the dismal hissing of iron shot in volleys flying—such bellowing of mortars—such thund'ring of cannon—such roaring of musketry—and such clashing of swords and bayonets—such cries of the wounded—and such streams of blood—such a noise and crush of houses, steeples, and whole streets of desolate Charlestown falling—pillars of fire, and the convulsed vortex of fiery flakes, rolling in flaming wreaths in the air, in dreadful combustion, seemed as tho' the elements and whole earth were envelop'd in one general, eternal conflagration and total ruin, and intermingled with black smoke, ascending, on the wings of mourning, up to Heaven, seemed piteously to implore the Almighty interposition to put a stop to such devastation, lest the whole earth should be unpeopled in the unnatural conflict—Too, too much for female heroism to dwell upon—But what are all those to the terrors that filled my affrighted imagination the last night?—Dreams—fancies—evil bodings—shadows, phantoms and ghastly visions continually hovering around my pillow, goading and harrowing my soul with the most terrific appearances, not imaginary, but real—Am I awake?—Where are the British murderers?—where's my husband?—my son?—my brother?—Something more than human tells me all is not well: If they are among the slain, 'tis impossible.—I—Oh! [She cries.]

Enter a Neighbour [a spectator of the battle].

Neighbour. Madam, grieve not so much.

Clarissa. Am I wont to grieve without a cause? Wou'd to God I did;—mock me not—What voice is that? methinks I know it—some angel sent to comfort me?—welcome then. [She turns about.] Oh, my Neighbour, is it you? My friend, I have need of comfort. Hast thou any for me?—say—will you not speak? Where's my husband?—my son?—my brother? Hast thou seen them since the battle? Oh! bring me not unwelcome tidings! [Cries.]

Neighbour. [Aside. What shall I say?] Madam, I beheld them yesterday from an eminence.

Clarissa. Upon that very eminence was I. What then?—

Neighbour. I saw the brave man Warren, your son and brother.

Clarissa. What? O ye gods!—Speak on friend—stop—what saw ye?

Neighbour. In the midst of the tempest of war—

Clarissa. Where are they now?—That I saw too—What is all this?

Neighbour. Madam, hear me—

Clarissa. Then say on—yet—Oh, his looks!—I fear!

Neighbour. When General Putnam bid the vanguard open their front to the—

Clarissa. Oh, trifle not with me—dear Neighbour!—where shall I find them?—say—

Neighbour. [Aside. Heavens! must I tell her!] Madam, be patient—right and left, that all may see who hate us, we are prepar'd for them—

Clarissa. What then?—Can you find 'em?—

Neighbour. I saw Warren and the other two heroes firm as Roxbury stand the shock of the enemy's fiercest attacks, and twice put to flight their boasted phalanx.—

Clarissa. All that I saw, and more; say—wou'd they not come to me, were they well?—

Neighbour. Madam, hear me—

Clarissa. Oh! he will not speak.

Neighbour. The enemy return'd to the charge, and stumbling o'er the dead and wounded bodies of their friends, Warren received them with indissoluble firmness, and notwithstanding their battalious aspect, in the midst of the battle, tho' surrounded with foes on ev'ry side—

Clarissa. Oh, my Neighbour!—

Neighbour. Madam—his nervous arm, like a giant refresh'd with wine, hurl'd destruction where'er he came, breathing heroic ardour to advent'rous deeds, and long time in even scale the battle hung, till at last death turn'd pale and affrighted at the carnage—they ran—

Clarissa. Who ran?

Neighbour. The enemy, Madam, gave way—

Clarissa. Warren never ran—yet—oh! I wou'd he had—I fear—[Cries.]

Neighbour. I say not so, Madam.

Clarissa. What say ye then? he was no coward, Neighbour—

Neighbour. Brave to the last. [Aside. I forgot myself.]

Clarissa. What said you? O Heavens! brave to the last! those words—why do you keep me thus?—cruel—

Neighbour. [Aside. She will know it.] I say, Madam, by some mistaken orders on our side, the enemy rallied and return'd to the charge with fresh numbers, and your husband, son, and brother—Madam—

Clarissa. Stop!—O ye powers!—What?—say no more—yet let me hear—keep me not thus—tell me, I charge thee—

Neighbour. [Aside. I can hold no longer, she must know it.] Forgive me, Madam—I saw them fall—and Michael, the archangel, who vanquish'd Satan, is not more immortal than they. [Aside. Who can relate such woes without a tear?],

Clarissa. Oh! I've heard enough—too—too much [Cries.] yet—if thou hast worse to tell—say on—nought worse can be—O ye gods!—cruel—cruel—thrice cruel—cou'd ye not leave me one—[She faints, and is caught by her friend, and placed in a chair; he rings the bell, the family come in, and endeavour to bring her to.]

Neighbour. With surprising fortitude she heard the melancholy relation, until I came to the last close—she then gave me a mournful look, lifted up her eyes, and immediately sunk motionless into my arms.

Woman. Poor soul!—no wonder—how I sympathize with her in her distress—my tender bosom can scarcely bear the sight! A dreadful loss! a most shocking scene it was, that brothers should with brothers war, and in intestine fierce opposition meet, to seek the blood of each other, like dogs for a bare bone, who so oft in generous friendship and commerce join'd, in festivals of love and joy unanimous as the sons of one kind and indulgent father, and separately would freely in a good cause spend their blood and sacrifice their lives for him.

Neighbour. A terrible black day it was, and ever will be remembered by New-England, when that vile Briton (unworthy the name of a Briton), Lord Boston (curse the name!), whose horrid murders stain American soil with blood; perish his name! a fratricide! 'twas he who fir'd Charlestown, and spread desolation, fire, flames and smoke in ev'ry corner—he was the wretch, that waster of the world, that licens'd robber, that blood-stain'd insulter of a free people, who bears the name of Lord Boston, but from henceforth shall be called Cain, that pillag'd the ruins, and dragg'd and murder'd the infant, the aged and infirm—(But look, she recovers.)

Clarissa. O ye angels! ye cherubims and seraphims! waft their souls to bliss, bathe their wounds with angelic balsam, and crown them with immortality. A faithful, loving and beloved husband, a promising and filial son, a tender and affectionate brother: Alas! what a loss!—Whom have I now to comfort me?—What have I left, but the voice of lamentation: [She weeps.] Ill-fated bullets—these tears shall sustain me—yes, ye dear friends! how gladly wou'd I follow you—but alas! I must still endure tribulation and inquietudes, from which you are now exempt; I cannot cease to weep, ye brave men, I will mourn your fall—weep on—flow, mine eyes, and wash away their blood, till the fountain of sorrow is dried up—but, oh! it never—never will—my sympathetic soul shall dwell on your bosoms, and floods of tears shall water your graves; and since all other comfort is deny'd me, deprive me not of the only consolation left me of meditating on your virtues and dear memories, who fell in defense of liberty and your country—ye brave men—ye more than friends—ye martyrs to liberty!—This, this is all I ask, till sorrow overwhelms me.—I breathe my last; and ye yourselves, your own bright spirits, come and waft me to your peaceful abode, where the voice of lamentation is not heard, neither shall we know any more what it is to separate.

[Exeunt.