100 And carried vengeance through the world? Now she bears me far away Bear me from that distant strand, To California's golden shore- Now, tho' late, returning home, 110 120 130 And if they do not keep Columbia free, What will alas! become of Liberty? Great souls grow bolder in their country's cause, Detest enslavers, and despise their laws. Heard or not heard, and struggle to be free. Born to contend, our lives we place at stake, And grow immortal by the stand we make. O you, who, far from liberty detain'd, Wear out existence in some slavish land, Fly thence from tyrants, and their flatt'ring throng, And bring the fiery freeborn soul along. 20 Neptune for you shall smooth the hoary deep, And awe the wild tumultuous waves to sleep; Here vernal woods, and flow'ry meadows blow, Luxuriant harvests in rich plenty grow, Commerce extends as far as waves can roll, And freedom, God-like freedom, crowns the whole. And you, brave men, who scorn the dread of death, Still guard each pass; like ancient Romans, you At once are soldiers, and are farmers too; Still arm impatient for the vengeful blow, And rush intrepid on the yielding foe; As when of late midst clouds of fire and smoke, Whole squadrons fell, or to the center shook, And even the bravest to your arm gave way, And death, exulting, ey'd the unhappy fray. Behold, your Warren bleeds, who both inspir'd To noble deeds, and by his actions fir'd; 40 What pity, heaven!-but you who yet re main Affect his spirit as you lov'd the man: Once more, and yet once more for freedom strive, And seemed to meditate with studious face, As if again he wished our world to see Long, dull, dry letters, writ to General Lee Huge scrawls of words through endless circuits drawn Unmeaning as the errand. he's upon.- Lord Piercy seemed to snore-but may the Muse This ill-timed snoring to the peer excuse; Tired was the long boy of his toilsome day, Full fifteen miles he fled-a tedious way; How could he then the dews of Somnus shun, Perhaps not used to walk-much less to Skilled to direct the cannonading shot, No Turkish rover half so murdering hot, Pleased with base vengeance on defence less towns, His heart was malice-but his words were, Zounds! Howe, vexed to see his starving army's doom, In prayer, besought the skies for elbow room Small was his stock, and theirs, of heavenly grace, Yet just enough to ask a larger place. 40 He cursed the brainless minister that planned His bootless errand to this hostile land, But, awed by Gage, his bursting wrath recoiled, And in his inmost bosom doubly boiled. These, chief of all the tyrant-serving train, Exalted sate the rest (a pensioned clan), A sample of the multitude that wait, Pale sons of famine, at perdition's gate, North's friends down swarming (so our monarch wills), 49 Hungry as death, from Caledonian hills; Whose endless numbers if you bid me tell, I'll count the atoms of this globe as well, Knights, captains, 'squires a wonderworking band, Held at small wages 'till they gain the land, Flocked pensive round-black spleen assailed their hearts, (The sport of plough-boys, with their arms and arts) And make them doubt (howe'er for ven geance hot) Whether they were invincible or not. What are these strangers from a foreign isle, That we should fear their hate or court their smile?- Pride sent them here, pride blasted in the bud, Who, if she can, will build her throne in blood, 90 With slaughtered millions glut her tearless eyes, And bid even virtue fall, that she may rise. What deep offence has fired a arch's rage? mon What moon-struck madness seized the brain of Gage? Laughs not the soul when an imprisoned crew Affect to pardon those they can't subdue, The war still rages, and the battle burnsNo dull debates, or tedious counsels know, But rush at once, embodied, on your foe; With hell-born spite a seven years' war they wage, The pirate Goodrich, and the ruffian Gage. Your injured country groans while yet they stay, Attend her groans, and force their hosts away; Your mighty wrongs the tragic muse shall trace, 1 Published in "Travels of the Imagination," 1778, by Robert Bell, Philadelphia. The conclusion of a poem of 350 lines. |