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 |  |
I too, perhaps, should heav'n prolong my date,
The oft-repeated tale shall oft relate;
Shall tell the feelings in the first alarms,
Of some bold enterprize th' unequall'd charms;
Shall tell from whom I learnt the martial art,
With what high chiefs I play'd my early part;
With Parsons first, whose eye, with piercing ken,
Reads through their hearts the characters of men;
Then how I aided, in the foll'wing scene,
Death-daring Putnam—then immortal Greene—
Then how great Washington my youth approv'd,
In rank preferr'd, and as a parent lov'd,
(For each fine feeling in his bosom blends
The first of heroes, sages, patriots, friends)
With him what hours on warlike plans I spent,
Beneath the shadow of th' imperial tent;
With him how oft I went the nightly round,
Through moving hosts, or slept on tented ground;
From him how oft (nor far below the first
In high behests and confidential trust)
From him how oft I bore the dread commands,
Which destin'd for the fight the eager bands:
With him how oft I pass'd th' eventful day,
Rode by his side, as down the long array
His awful voice the columns taught to form,
To point the thunders, and to pour the storm.
But, thanks to heav'n! those days of blood are o'er,
The trumpet's clangour, the loud cannon's roar:
No more advance the long extended lines,
Front form'd to front—no more the battle joins
With rushing shock—th' unsufferable sound
Rends not the skies—nor blood distains the ground—
Nor spread through peaceful villages afar,
The crimson flames of desolating war.
No more this hand, since happier days succeed,
Waves the bright blade, or reins the fiery steed.
No more for martial fame this bosom burns,
Now white-rob'd peace to bless a world returns;
Now fost'ring freedom all her bliss bestows,
Unnumber'd blessings for unnumber'd woes.
The oft-repeated tale shall oft relate;
Shall tell the feelings in the first alarms,
Of some bold enterprize th' unequall'd charms;
Shall tell from whom I learnt the martial art,
With what high chiefs I play'd my early part;
With Parsons first, whose eye, with piercing ken,
Reads through their hearts the characters of men;
Then how I aided, in the foll'wing scene,
Death-daring Putnam—then immortal Greene—
Then how great Washington my youth approv'd,
In rank preferr'd, and as a parent lov'd,
(For each fine feeling in his bosom blends
The first of heroes, sages, patriots, friends)
With him what hours on warlike plans I spent,
Beneath the shadow of th' imperial tent;
With him how oft I went the nightly round,
Through moving hosts, or slept on tented ground;
From him how oft (nor far below the first
In high behests and confidential trust)
From him how oft I bore the dread commands,
Which destin'd for the fight the eager bands:
With him how oft I pass'd th' eventful day,
Rode by his side, as down the long array
His awful voice the columns taught to form,
To point the thunders, and to pour the storm.
But, thanks to heav'n! those days of blood are o'er,
The trumpet's clangour, the loud cannon's roar:
No more advance the long extended lines,
Front form'd to front—no more the battle joins
With rushing shock—th' unsufferable sound
Rends not the skies—nor blood distains the ground—
Nor spread through peaceful villages afar,
The crimson flames of desolating war.
No more this hand, since happier days succeed,
Waves the bright blade, or reins the fiery steed.
No more for martial fame this bosom burns,
Now white-rob'd peace to bless a world returns;
35
Unnumber'd blessings for unnumber'd woes.
| The miscellaneous works of David Humphreys | |