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.

Rebellions manag'd so unlike their own!
O may I never feel the poignant pain
To live subjected to such fiends again, 80
Stewards and Mates that hostile Britain
bore,

Cut from the gallows on their native shore;

Their ghastly looks and vengeance-beaming eyes

Still to my view in dismal colours rise— O may I ne'er review these dire abodes, These piles for slaughter, floating on the floods,

And you, that o'er the troubled ocean go, Strike not your standards to this miscreant foe,

Better the greedy wave should swallow all,

89

Better to meet the death-conducted ball, Better to sleep on ocean's deepest bed, At once destroy'd and number'd with the dead,

Than thus to perish in the face of day