"The Indians lie in ambush, in some place nigh at hand, In order to surround us upon this neck of land;
Therefore we 'll march in order, and each man leave his pack,
That we may briskly fight them when they make their attack."
They came unto this Indian, who did them thus defy:
As soon as they came nigh him, two guns he did let fly,
Which wounded Captain LOVEWELL and likewise one man more;
But when this rogue was running, they laid him in his gore.
Then, having scalp'd the Indian, they went back to the spot
Where they had laid their packs down, but there they found them not,
For the Indians, having spy'd them when they them down did lay,
Did seize them for their plunder and carry them away.
These rebels lay in ambush this very place hard by,
So that an English soldier did one of them espy
And cried out, "Here 's an Indian!" With that they started out
As fiercely as old lions, and hideously did shout.
With that our valiant English all gave a loud huzza,
To shew the rebel Indians they fear'd them not a straw.
So now the fight began; and as fiercely as could be
The Indians ran up to them, but soon were forced to flee.
Then spake up Captain LOVEWELL when first the fight began,
"Fight on, my valiant heroes! you see they fall like rain!"
For, as we are inform'd, the Indians were so thick
A man could scarcely fire a gun and not some of them hit.
Then did the rebels try their best our soldiers to surround,
But they could not accomplish it, because there was a pond
To which our men retreated and covered all the rear:
The rogues were forc'd to flee them, altho' they skulked for fear.
Two logs there were behind them that close together lay:
Without being discovered they could not get away;
Therefore our valiant English they travell'd in a row,
And at a handsome distance, as they were wont to go.
'T was ten o'clock in the morning when first the fight begun,
And fiercely did continue until the setting sun,
Excepting that the Indians, some hours before 't was night,
Drew off into the bushes and ceas'd a while to fight.
But soon again returned in fierce and furious mood,
Shouting as in the morning, but yet not half so loud;
For, as we are informed, so thick and fast they fell
Scarce twenty of their number at night did get home well;
And that our valiant English till midnight there did stay,
To see whether the rebels would have another fray;
But, they no more returning, they made off towards their home, 55 And brought away their wounded as far as they could come.
Of all our valiant English there were but thirty-four,
And of the rebel Indians there were about fourscore:
And sixteen of our English did safely home return;
The rest were kill'd and wounded, for which we all must mourn.
Our worthy Captain LOVEWELL among them there did die;
They killed Lieut. ROBBINS, and wounded good young FRYE,
Who was our English Chaplain: he many Indians slew,
And some of them he scalp'd when bullets round him flew.
Young FULLAM, too, I'll mention, because he fought so well--
Endeavouring to save a man, a sacrifice he fell.
But yet our valiant Englishmen in fight were ne'er dismay'd,
But still they kept their motion, and WYMAN 's captain made,
Who shot the old chief PAUGUS, which did the foe defeat;
Then set his men in order, and brought off the retreat;
And, braving many dangers and hardships in the way,
They safe arriv'd at Dunstable the thirteenth day of May.
AN ELEGY ADDRESS'D TO HIS EXCELLENCY
GOVERNOUR BELCHER
ON THE DEATH OF HIS BROTHER-IN-LAW, THE HONOURABLE
DANIEL OLIVER, ESQ.
Mindless of Grandieur, from the Crowd he fled,
Sought green Retirements and the silent Shade.
Ye how'ry Trees which round his Mansion bloom,
Oft ye conceal'd him in your hallow'd Gloom:
Oft he enjoy'd, in your sublime Abode,
His Books, his Innocence, his Friend, his GOD.
Now sad, I wander o'er the lofty Seat
And trace the Mazes of the soft Retreat,
View the fair Prospects, round the Gardens rove,
Bend up the Hill and search the lonely Grove.
But ah, no more his Voice salutes my Ear,
Nor in his Hands the blushing Fruits appear;
Yet is his Image in each Scene convey'd,
And busy Fancy forms his gliding Shade:
I seem to meet him in the flow'ry Walks,
And thro' the Boughs his whispering Spirit talks;
Eager I call, the dear Delusion flies,
Grief seals my Lips and Tears suffuse my Eyes.
O far, far off, above the Ken of these,
The rising Mountain and th' aspiring Trees,
In the gay Bow'rs that crown th' Eternal Hills
His spotless Soul in deathless Pleasure dwells;
Tuneful replies while Choral Seraphs play,
And in bright Visions smiles the Hours away.
He visits now no more this dull Abode,
But talks with Angels, and beholds his GOD.
THE POET'S LAMENTATION FOR THE LOSS
OF HIS CAT
WHICH HE USED TO CALL HIS MUSE
Oppress'd with grief, in heavy strains I mourn
The partner of my studies from me torn.
How shall I sing? what numbers shall I chuse?
For in my fav'rite cat I've lost my muse.
No more I feel my mind with raptures fir'd,
I want those airs that Puss so oft inspir'd:
No crowding thoughts my ready fancy fill,
Nor words run fluent from my easy quill.
Yet shall my verse deplore her cruel fate,
And celebrate the virtues of my cat.
She never thirsted for the chickens' blood;
Her teeth she only used to chew her food.
Harmless as satires which her master writes,
A foe to scratching and unused to bites,
She in the study was my constant mate;
There we together many evenings sat.
Whene'er I felt my tow'ring fancy fail,
I stroked her head, her ears, her back, and tail,
And, as I stroked, improv'd my dying song
From the sweet notes of her melodious tongue:
Her purrs and mews so evenly kept time,
She purr'd in metre and she mew'd in rhyme.
But when my dulness has too stubborn prov'd,
Nor could by Puss's music be remov'd,
Oft to the well-known volumes have I gone,
And stole a line from Pope or Addison.
Ofttimes when lost amidst poetic heat,
She, leaping on my knee, has took her seat,
There saw the throes that rock'd my lab'ring brain,
And lick'd and claw'd me to myself again.
Then, friends, indulge my grief and let me mourn.
My cat is gone, ah, never to return!
Now in my study, all the tedious night,
Alone I sit and unassisted write;
Look often round (O greatest cause of pain!),
And view the num'rous labors of my brain;
Those quires of words array'd in pompous rhyme,
Which braved the jaws of all-devouring time,
Now undefended and unwatch'd by cats,
Are doom'd a victim to the teeth of rats.
I sing the day, bright with peculiar charms,
Whose rising radiance ev'ry bosom warms;
The day when Cambridge empties all the towns,
And youths commencing take their laurel crowns:
When smiling joys and gay delights appear,
And shine distinguish'd in the rolling year.
While the glad theme I labour to rehearse
In flowing numbers and melodious verse,
Descend, immortal nine, my soul inspire,
Amid my bosom lavish all your fire,
While smiling Phabus owns the heavenly layes
And shades the poet with surrounding bayes!
But chief, ye blooming nymphs of heavenly frame
Who make the day with double glory flame,
In whose fair persons art and nature vie,
On the young muse cast an auspicious eye:
Secure of fame then shall the goddess sing,
And rise triumphant with a tow'ring wing;
Her tuneful notes wide-spreading all around,
The hills shall echo and the vales resound.
Soon as the morn, in crimson robes array'd,
With chearful beams dispels the flying shade,
While fragrant odours waft the air along,
And birds melodious chant their heavenly song,
And all the waste of heav'n, with glory spread,
Wakes up the world in sleep's embraces dead,
Then those whose dreams were on th' approaching day
Prepare in splendid garbs to make their way
To that admir'd solemnity whose date
Tho' late begun will last as long as fate.
And now the sprightly Fair approach the glass
To heighten every feature of the face:
They view the roses flush their glowing cheeks,
The snowy lillies twining round their necks;
Their rustling manteaus, huddled on in haste,
They clasp with shining girdles round their waist.
Nor less the speed and care of every beau
To shine in dress and swell the solemn show.
Thus clad, in careless order mixt by chance,
In haste they both along the streets advance,
'Till near the brink of Charles's beauteous stream
They stop, and think the lingring boat to blame.
Soon as the empty skiff salutes the shore
In with impetuous haste they clustering pour;
The men the head, the stern the ladies grace,
And neighing horses fill the middle space.
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