Let some brave officers stand on the rear,
And with the small sword and sharp bayonet
Drive on each coward that attempts to lag,
That thus sure death may find the villain out
With more dread certainty than him who moves
Full in the van to meet the wrathful foe.

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SCENE VIII

Bunkers-Hill. Gardiner desperately wounded and borne from the field by two Soldiers.

Gardiner. A musket-ball, death-wing'd, hath pierc'd my
groin

And widely op'd the swift curr'nt of my veins.
Bear me, then, Soldiers, to that hollow space
A little hence, just in the hill's decline.

A surgeon there may stop the gushing wound
And gain a short respite to life, that yet
I may return and fight one half hour more.
Then shall I die in peace, and to my GoD
Surrender up the spirit which he gave.

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SCENE IX

Putnam, to the American Army.

Swift-rising fame on early wing mounts up

To the convexity of bending Heaven,

And writes each name who fought with us this day
In fairest character amidst the stars.

The world shall read it and still talk of us

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Who, far out-number'd, twice drove back the foe,

With carnage horrid, murm'ring to their ships.

The Ghost of WARREN says "Enough!" I see

Which Gard'ner feels, once more we charge! once more,
Dear friends! And fence the obscur'd hill

With hecatombs of slain! Let every piece

Flash like the fierce-consuming fire of Heaven,

And make the smoke in which they wrap themselves

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"A darkness visible." Now once again

Receive the battle, as a shore of rock

The ocean wave! And if at last we yield,
Leave many a death amidst their hollow ranks
To damp the measure of their dear-bought joy.

SCENE X AND LAST

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Bunkers-Hill. The American Army, overpower'd by numbers, are obliged Enter Howe, Pigot, and Clinton with the British Army. Richardson, a young Officer, on the Parapet.

to retreat.

The day is ours! huzza, the day is ours!

This last attack has forc'd them to retreat.

Clinton. 'T is true, full victory declares for us,

But we have dearly, dearly, purchas’d it.

Full fifteen hundred of our men lie dead,

Who, with their officers, do swell the list

Of this day's carnage. On the well-fought hill

Whole ranks, cut down, lie struggling with their wounds

Or close their bright eyes in the shades of night.
No wonder: such incessant musketry

And fire of Cannon from the hill-top pour'd

Seem'd not the agency of mortal men

But heaven itself, with snares and vengeance arm'd
T'oppose our gaining it. E'en when was spent
Their ammunition, and fierce WARREN slain,
Huge stones were hurled from the rocky brow,
And war renew'd by these inveterate,

"Till, GARD'NER wounded, the left wing gave way,
And with their shatter'd infantry the whole,
Drawn off by PUTNAM, to the causeway fled,

When from the ships and batt'ries on the wave

They met deep loss and strew'd the narrow bridge

With lifeless carcases. O such a day,

Since Sodom and Gomorrah sunk in flames,

Hath not been heard of by the ear of man,

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ΙΟ

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Nor hath an eye beheld its parallel!

Lord Pigot. The day is ours, but with heart-piercing loss

Of soldiers slain and gallant officers.

Old Abercrombie on the field lies dead,
Pitcairn and Sherwin in sore battle slain;
The gallant reg'ment of Welsh fusileers
To seventeen privates is this day reduc'd;
The grenadiers stand thinly on the hill,

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Like the tall fir-trees on the blasted heath,

Scorch'd by the autumnal burnings which have rush'd

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With wasting fire fierce through its leafy groves.

Should ev'ry hill, by the rebellious foe

So well defended, cost thus dear to us,

Not the united forces of the world

Could master them and the proud rage subdue
Of these AMERICANS.

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Howe. E'en in an enemy I honour worth
And valour eminent. The vanquish'd foe
In feats of prowess shew their ancestry
And speak their birth legitimate,

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The sons of Britons, with the genuine flame
Of British heat and valour in their veins.
What pity 't is such excellence of mind
Should spend itself in the fantastic cause
Of wild-fire liberty. Warren is dead,
And lies unburied on the smoky hill;
But with rich honours he shall be inhum'd,
To teach our soldiery how much we love

E'en in a foe true worth and noble fortitude.
Come, then, brave soldiers, and take up the dead,

Majors and Col'nels which are this day slain,

And noble Captains of sweet live bereft.

Fair flowers shall grow upon their grassy tombs,

And fame in tears shall tell their tragedy

To many a widow and soft weeping maid

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Or parent woe-ful for an only son,

Through mourning BRITAIN and HIBERNIA'S Isle.

Enter Burgoyne from Boston.

Oft have I read in the historic page

And witnessed myself high scenes in war,
But this rude day, unparallel'd in time,
Has no competitor. The gazing eye
Of many a soldier from the chimney-tops

And spires of Boston witnessed when Howe,
With his full thousands moving up the hill,
Receiv'd the onset of the impetuous foe;
The hill itself, like Ida's burning mount
When Jove came down in terrors to dismay

The Grecian host, enshrowded in thick flames;

And round its margin, to the ebbing wave,
A town on fire and rushing from its base
With ruin hideous and combustion down.
Mean time deep thunder from the hollow sides
Of the artill'ry on the hill top hear'd,
With roar of thunder and loud mortars play'd
From the tall ships and batt'ries on the wave,
Bade yon blue ocean and wide heaven resound.
A scene like which, perhaps, no time shall know
"Till heav'n with final ruin fires the ball,
Burns up the cities and the works of men,
And wraps the mountains in one gen'ral blaze.

JOHN TRUMBULL

THE PROGRESS OF DULNESS

FROM

PART I, OR THE ADVENTURES OF TOM BRAINLESS

"Our Tom has grown a sturdy boy:

His progress fills my heart with joy;
A steady soul that yields to rule,
And quite ingenious, too, at school.
Our master says (I 'm sure he 's right)
There's not a lad in town so bright:
He'll cypher bravely, write and read,
And say his catechism and creed,

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His parents held a consultation;

If on their couch or round their fire,

I need not tell nor you enquire.

The point's agreed; the boy well pleased,

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From country cares and labor eased:

No more to rise by break of day
To drive home cows or deal out hay;
To work no more in snow or hail,
And blow his fingers o'er the flail,
Or mid the toils of harvest sweat
Beneath the summer's sultry heat;
Serene he bids the farm good-bye,
And quits the plough without a sigh.
Propitious to their constant friend,
The pow'rs of idleness attend.

So to the priest in form he goes,
Prepared to study and to doze.
The parson in his youth before
Had run the same dull progress o'er,
His sole concern to see with care
His church and farm in good repair.

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