The miscellaneous works of David Humphreys :: :: University of Virginia Library

Ye smoking ruins, marks of hostile ire,
Ye ashes warm, which drink the tears that flow,
Ye desolated plains, my voice inspire,
And give soft music to the song of woe.

How pleasant, Fairfield, on th' enraptur'd sight
Rose thy tall spires, and op'd thy social halls!
How oft my bosom beat with pure delight,
At yonder spot where stand the darken'd walls!

But there the voice of mirth resounds no more,
A silent sadness through the streets prevails:
The distant main alone is heard to roar,
And hollow chimnies hum with sullen gales—

Save where scorch'd elms th' untimely foliage shed,
Which, rustling, hovers round the faded green—
Save where, at twilight, mourners frequent tread,
'Mid recent graves o'er desolation's scene.

How chang'd the blissful prospect, when compar'd,
These glooms funereal, with thy former bloom,
Thy hospitable rights when Tryon shar'd,
Long ere he seal'd thy melancholy doom!

That impious wretch, with coward voice decreed
Defenceless domes and hallow'd fanes to dust;
Beheld, with sneering smile, the wounded bleed,
And spurr'd his bands to rapine, blood and lust.

192

Vain was the widow's, vain the orphan's cry,
To touch his feelings, or to sooth his rage—
Vain the fair drop that roll'd from beauty's eye,
Vain the dumb grief of supplicating age.

Could Tryon hope to quench the patriot flame,
Or make his deeds survive in glory's page?
Could Britons seek of savages the fame,
Or deem it conquest, thus the war to wage?

Yes, Britons! scorn the councils of the skies,
Extend wide havock, spurn th' insulted foes;
Th' insulted foes to tenfold vengeance rise,
Resistance growing as the danger grows.

Red in their wounds, and pointing to the plain,
The visionary shapes before me stand—
The thunder bursts, the battle burns again,
And kindling fires encrimson all the strand.

Long dusky wreaths of smoke, reluctant driv'n,
In black'ning volumes o'er the landscape bend:
Here the broad splendour blazes high to heav'n,
There umber'd streams in purple pomp ascend.

In fiery eddies, round the tott'ring walls,
Emitting sparks, the lighter fragments fly;
With frightful crash the burning mansion falls,
The works of years in glowing embers lie.

Tryon, behold thy sanguine flames aspire,
Clouds ting'd with dyes intolerable bright;
Behold, well pleas'd, the village wrapt in fire;
Let one wide ruin glut thy ravish'd sight!

Ere fades the grateful scene, indulge thine eye,
See age and sickness, tremulously slow,
Creep from the flames—see babes in torture die,
And mothers swoon in agonies of woe.

Go, gaze, enraptur'd with the mother's tear,
The infant's terror, and the captive's pain,
Where no bold bands can check thy curst career;
Mix fire with blood on each unguarded plain!

193

These be thy triumphs! this thy boasted fame!
Daughters of mem'ry, raise the deathless songs!
Repeat through endless years his hated name,
Embalm his crimes, and teach the world our wrongs.