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SCENE IV. AND LAST.
Bunkers-Hill.The American Army overpower'd by numbers, are obliged to retreat.
Enter Howe, Pigot, and Clinton with the British Army.
Richardson,
a young Officer, on the Parapet.
The day is ours, huzza, the day is ours,
This last attack has forc'd them to retreat.
Clinton.
'Tis true, full victory declares for us,
But we have dearly, dearly, purchas'd it.
Full fifteen hundred, of our men lie dead,
Who, with their officers, do swell the list
Of this day's carnage—On the well-fought hill,
Whole ranks cut down, lie struggling with their wounds,
Or close their bright eyes, in the shades of night.
No wonder! such incessant musketry,
And fire of cannon, from the hill-top pour'd,
Seem'd not the agency, of mortal men,
But heaven itself, with vengeance arm'd,
T' oppose our gaining it. E'en when was spent
Their ammunition, and fierce Warren slain,
Huge stones were hurled from the rocky brow,
And war renew'd, by these inveterate;
'Till Gard'ner wounded, the left wing gave way,
And with their shatter'd infantry, the whole,
Drawn off by Putnam, to the causeway fled,
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They met deep loss, and strew'd the narrow bridge,
With lifeless carcases. O! such a day,
Since Sodom and Gomorrah sunk in flames,
Hath not been heard of by the ear of man,
Nor hath an eye beheld its parallel.
Lord Pigot.
The day is ours, but with heart-piercing loss,
Of soldiers slain, and gallant officers.
Old Abercrombie, on the field lies dead.
Pitcuirn and Sherwin, in sore battle slain.
The gallant reg'ment of Welsh fusileers,
To seventeen privates, is this day reduc'd.
The grenadiers, stand thinly on the hill,
Like the tall fir-trees on the blasted heath,
Scorch'd by the antumnal burnings, which have rush'd,
With wasting fire fierce through its leafy groves.
Should ev'ry hill by the rebellious foe,
So well defended, cost thus dear to us,
Not the united forces of the world,
Could master them, and the proud rage subdue
Of these Americans.—
Howe.
E'vn in an enemy I honour worth,
And valour eminent. The vanquish'd foe,
In feats of prowess shew their ancestry,
And speak their birth legitimate;
The sons of Britons, with the genuine flame,
Of British heat, and valour in their veins.
What pity 'tis, such excellence of mind,
Should spend itself, in the fantastic cause,
Of wild-fire liberty—Warren is dead,
And lies unburied, on the smoky hill;
But with rich honours he shall be inhum'd,
To teach our soldiery, how teach we love,
E'en in a foe, true worth and fortitude.
Come then brave soldiers, and take up the dead,
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And noble Captains of sweet life bereft.
Fair dowers shall grow upon their grassy tombs,
And fame in tears, shall tell their tragedy,
To many a widow and soft weeping maid,
Or parent woe-ful for an only son,
Through mourning Britain, and Hibernia's Isle.
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