100

And carried vengeance through the world?
Troy, thy vanish'd pomp resume,
Or, weeping at thy Hector's tomb,
Yet those faded scenes renew,
Whose memory is to Homer due.
Fancy, lead me wandering still
Up to Ida's cloud-topt hill;
Not a laurel there doth grow
But in vision thou shalt show,-
Every sprig on Virgil's tomb
Shall in livelier colours bloom,
And every triumph Rome has seen
Flourish on the years between.

Now she bears me far away
In the east to meet the day,
Leads me over Ganges' streams,
Mother of the morning beams—
O'er the ocean hath she ran,
Places me on Tinian;

Farther, farther in the east,
Till it almost meets the west,
Let us wandering both be lost
On Taitis sea-beat coast,

Bear me from that distant strand,
Over ocean, over land,

To California's golden shore-
Fancy, stop, and rove no more.

Now, tho' late, returning home,

Lead me to Belinda's tomb;
Let me glide as well as you
Through the shroud and coffin too,
And behold, a moment, there,
All that once was good and fair-
Who doth here so soundly sleep?
Shall we break this prison deep?
Thunders cannot wake the maid,
Lightnings cannot pierce the shade,
And tho' wintry tempests roar,
Tempests shall disturb no more.

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.
O Congress fam'd, accept this humble lay,
The little tribute that the muse can pay; 10
On you depends Columbia's future fate,
A free asylum or a wretched state.
Fall'n on disastrous times we push our
plea,

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,

Resolv'd to conquer to the latest breath, Soldiers in act, and heroes in renown, Warm in the cause of Boston's hapless

town,

30

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; 4o 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,

Received the honour of his Honour's weight;

This man of straw the regal purple bound, But dullness, deepcst dullness, hovered round.

Next Graves, who wields the trident of the brine,

The tall arch-captain of the embattled line,

All gloomy sate-mumbling of flame and fire,

10

Balls, cannon, ships, and all their damned attire; Well pleased to live in never-ending hum, But empty as the interior of his drum. Hard by, Burgoyne assumes an ample space,

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.-
Is he to conquer-he subdue our land?—
This buckram hero, with his lady's hand?
By Cesars to be vanquished is a curse, 21
But by a scribbling fop-by heaven, is
worse!

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

Your bleeding soil this ardent task demands,

Expel yon' thieves from these polluted lands, Expect no yields,

peace till haughty Britain

"Till humbled Britons quit your ravaged fields

Still to the charge that routed foe returns,

9

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.