The miscellaneous works of David Humphreys Late Minister Plenipotentiary from the United States of America to the Court of Madrid |
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 | The miscellaneous works of David Humphreys |  |
The foe then trembled at the well known name;
And raptur'd thousands to his standard came.
His martial skill our rising armies form'd;
His patriot zeal their gen'rous bosoms warm'd;
His voice inspir'd, his godlike presence led.
The Britons saw, and from his presence fled.
Soon reinforc'd from Albion's crowded shore,
New legions came, new plains were drench'd in gore;
And scarce Columbia's arm the fight sustains,
While her best blood gush'd from a thousand veins.
Then thine, O Brown! that purpled wide the ground,
Pursued the knife through many a ghastly wound.
Ah hapless friend! permit the tender tear
To flow e'en now, for none flow'd on thy bier,
Where cold and mangled, under northern skies,
To famish'd wolves a prey thy body lies;
Which erst so fair and tall in youthful grace,
Strength in thy nerves, and beauty in thy face,
Stood like a tow'r, till struck by the swift ball;
Then what avail'd (to award th' untimely fall)
The force of limbs, the mind so well inform'd,
The taste refin'd, the breast with friendship warm'd,
(That friendship which our earliest years begun)
Or what the laurels that thy sword had won,
When the dark bands from thee, expiring, tore
Thy long hair mingled with the spouting gore?
Nor less, brave Scammel, frown'd thine angry fate,
(May deathless shame that British deed await!)
On York's fam'd field, amid the first alarms,
Ere yet fair vict'ry crown'd the allied arms,
Fell chance betray'd thee to the hostile band,
The hapless victim of th' assassin hand!
Lo! while I tell the execrable deed,
Fresh in his side the dark wound seems to bleed;
That small red current still for vengeance cries,
And asks, “Why sleeps the thunder in the skies?”
On him, ye heav'ns, let all your vengeance fall,
On the curst wretch who wing'd th' insidious ball.
But thou, blest shade, be sooth'd! be this thy praise,
Ripe were thy virtues, though too few thy days!
Be this thy fame, through life of all approv'd,
To die lamented, honour'd, and belov'd.
And raptur'd thousands to his standard came.
His martial skill our rising armies form'd;
His patriot zeal their gen'rous bosoms warm'd;
His voice inspir'd, his godlike presence led.
The Britons saw, and from his presence fled.
Soon reinforc'd from Albion's crowded shore,
New legions came, new plains were drench'd in gore;
And scarce Columbia's arm the fight sustains,
While her best blood gush'd from a thousand veins.
Then thine, O Brown! that purpled wide the ground,
Pursued the knife through many a ghastly wound.
Ah hapless friend! permit the tender tear
To flow e'en now, for none flow'd on thy bier,
Where cold and mangled, under northern skies,
To famish'd wolves a prey thy body lies;
Which erst so fair and tall in youthful grace,
Strength in thy nerves, and beauty in thy face,
Stood like a tow'r, till struck by the swift ball;
Then what avail'd (to award th' untimely fall)
10
The taste refin'd, the breast with friendship warm'd,
(That friendship which our earliest years begun)
Or what the laurels that thy sword had won,
When the dark bands from thee, expiring, tore
Thy long hair mingled with the spouting gore?
Nor less, brave Scammel, frown'd thine angry fate,
(May deathless shame that British deed await!)
On York's fam'd field, amid the first alarms,
Ere yet fair vict'ry crown'd the allied arms,
Fell chance betray'd thee to the hostile band,
The hapless victim of th' assassin hand!
Lo! while I tell the execrable deed,
Fresh in his side the dark wound seems to bleed;
That small red current still for vengeance cries,
And asks, “Why sleeps the thunder in the skies?”
On him, ye heav'ns, let all your vengeance fall,
On the curst wretch who wing'd th' insidious ball.
But thou, blest shade, be sooth'd! be this thy praise,
Ripe were thy virtues, though too few thy days!
Be this thy fame, through life of all approv'd,
To die lamented, honour'd, and belov'd.
| The miscellaneous works of David Humphreys | |