 | The poetical works of Samuel Woodworth |  |
97
THE BATTLE.
RECITATIVE.
Oh, who, reclined in dastard ease,
Could hear his country call in vain,
Or view her banner court the breeze,
Nor sigh to seek the hostile plain?
Could hear his country call in vain,
Or view her banner court the breeze,
Nor sigh to seek the hostile plain?
AIR.
Oh, perish such wretches! while, eager for glory,
The youth of our country are rushing to arms;
The deeds of our sires, if we list to the story,
Excite in our bosoms a spirit that charms.
The youth of our country are rushing to arms;
The deeds of our sires, if we list to the story,
Excite in our bosoms a spirit that charms.
RECITATIVE.
But hark! the cannon's awful roar
Proclaims the deadly fray begun!
The hostile ranks have met once more,
And clouds of smoke obscure the sun.
Proclaims the deadly fray begun!
The hostile ranks have met once more,
And clouds of smoke obscure the sun.
AIR.
The soul-stirring bugle now sounds to the charge,
And our cavalry rush like a tempest along;
The wing of the foe, on the cataract's verge,
Is broken and turned by a current so strong.
And our cavalry rush like a tempest along;
The wing of the foe, on the cataract's verge,
Is broken and turned by a current so strong.
98
The havoc increases, the squadrons unite,
The clashing of sabres is heard in the din,
All rushing with ardor to share in the fight,
While bayonets bristle terrific between.
The clashing of sabres is heard in the din,
All rushing with ardor to share in the fight,
While bayonets bristle terrific between.
The shouts of the victors, the groans of the dying,
The shrill-sounding fife, and the drum's noisy rattle,
The prancing of coursers, in charging or flying,
Unite in augmenting the din of the battle.
The shrill-sounding fife, and the drum's noisy rattle,
The prancing of coursers, in charging or flying,
Unite in augmenting the din of the battle.
RECITATIVE.
But, hark! the distant bugle's strain
Proclaims the vanquished foe is flying;
He leaves behind the ensanguined plain,
Where half his host are dead or dying.
Proclaims the vanquished foe is flying;
He leaves behind the ensanguined plain,
Where half his host are dead or dying.
AIR.
The tumult subsides, and the carnage is done,
The field is our own, for the battle is won;
Our bugle proclaims us the lords of the day,
With victory, liberty, glory, huzza!
The field is our own, for the battle is won;
Our bugle proclaims us the lords of the day,
With victory, liberty, glory, huzza!
| The poetical works of Samuel Woodworth | |