The death of General Montgomery, in storming the city of Quebec ::

Hic, manus, ob patriam, pugnando, vulnera passi.
Patriots who perish'd in their Country's Right.
Pitt's Virgil.

TO His Excellency THOMAS MIFFLIN, Esquire; OF THE STATE OF PENNSYLVANIA: MAJOR GENERAL IN THE Continental Army.

PROLOGUE TO THE DEATH OF GENERAL MONTGOMERY.

By Colonel J. Parke.

Once more the advent'rous band, my lays explore,
From Charlestown heights, manur'd with British gore;
From Cambridge barriers, frowning on the foe,
Who harmless bluster on the depths below;
Through howling desarts, many a weary'd mile,
The dreary forest and the dark defile.
The dashing torrent, and the deep morass,
Braving, like Hannibal, the tow'ring pass;
But Fancy quits those realms where horrors reigns,
And welcomes Arnold to Canadia's plains.
Those plains where mighty Wolfe in triumph bled;
Britain subdu'd and vanquish'd Bourbon fled:
Thy sons, America, with chearful heart,
In all her conflicts took a willing part,
With steps resolv'd ye trod the hostile wood,
Where famine threatens and where murders brood.
For Britain's glory, flow'd the purple vein,
Warm from the heart to prop a Brunswick's reign.
How chang'd the scene! no more with friendly hand

To aid thy pow'r, we leave our native land
Burst are those ties, alas! and scatter'd wild,
That join'd the Parent to the faithful child:
Fatal ambition, to each vice ally'd,
Dire mischief's progeny, the child of pride;
These wars malign, from thy curst genius flow
Those fields of slaughter, and those scenes of woe;
Death marks thy steps, while o'er our land high waves
Destruction dire;—deep yawns the op'ning graves,
Portentous ill! see hecatombs expire,
And cities falling! 'midst th' unhallow'd fire.
'Midst thundering Culverins, and dread alarms,
Crush'd to their base, by tyranny in arms.
Thro' the bleak arctic clime thy spirit glows,
While blaz'ing ramparts banish soft repose.
Montgomery, glorious from his conquest won,
To Abra'ms plains now leads his cohorts on.
Where hostile batt'ries stern resistance shew,
And dare the fury of th' advent'rous foe.
While Britain's union streams upon the walls,
Our hardy troops to fierce encounter calls.
Now round each heart, fair freedom spreads her flame.
That glows and kindles at the voice of fame.
E'en Carleton trembles from his bastion'd height,
Nor dates, 'gainst freemen, risk the dubious sight.

Tho' Autumn black'ning on the mountain lowrs,
And o'er the dreary heath the tempest roars.
Tho' o'er his head the sweeping whirlwind flies,
And blazing mortars rend sea, earth, and skies—
Fearless of danger, for he smiles at pain,
Spreads his wide flag and opes the bold campaign.

THE DEATH OF GENERAL MONTGOMERY.
[_]

The AUTHOR TO THE PUBLIC.

It is my request that the following Dramatic Composition may be considered only as a school piece. For though it is written according to the prescribed rules of the Drama, with the strictest attention to the unities of time, place, and action, yet it differs materially from the greater part of those modern performances which have obtained the name of Tragedy. It is intended for the private entertainment of Gentlemen of taste, and martial enterprize, but by no means for the exhibition of the stage. The subject is not love but valour. I meddle not with any of the effeminating passions, but consecrate my muse to the great themes of patriotic virtue, bravery and heroism.

With respect to the particular merit of the piece, I have only to say, that I flatter myself it would have been more deserving of attention, had it been drawn up in less haste. It is found by all who have attempted it, that at least one year is necessary to the composition of a good Tragedy. The following was made out at different intervals in the space of a few weeks, and therefore, according to the rule before mentioned, it must be supposed to come far short of perfection. Writing in this way is my amusement not my business. But here it may be observed, that no man pays attention to the time spent in composing, but to the merit of the performance when it makes its appearance. Could not I have kept this small affair to myself some time longer, if after that period, it would have been in my power to have produced it more elegant and pleasing? I answer, that one great foundation of the merit of any performance is its being seasonable. An oration, eulogium, or production of any kind, in honour of our brave countrymen who have fallen, or of those who do yet contend in the glorious cause of freedom, is likely to do greater good and will be more acceptable
6

at present, than hereafter, when the foe is entirely repulsed and the danger over.

For this reason I submit it in its present state to the candid and generous, with my promise, that when it shall be in my power to afford time to revise and amend it, I will endeavour to give it to the world in a Second Edition, more correct and finished.

DRAMATIS PERSONÆ.

Montgomery. General and Commander in Chief of the Expedition to Canada.
Arnold. Commander in Chief of the Division which effected a March to Canada by the way of the river Kennebec.
Campbell. Colonel in the Division under General Montgomery, and Deputy Quarter Master General.
Meggs. Major in the Division under General Arnold.
Macpherson. Aid-de-Camp to General Montgomery, and from the Delaware State.
Burr. Aid-de-Camp to General Montgomery
Hendricks. Captain in the Pennsylvania Forces.
Cheeseman. Captain in the New-York Forces.
Oswald. A gallant Volunteer from the State of Connecticut.
Morgan. Captain in the Virginia Troops.
Chaplain. The Reverend Samuel Spring.
Surgeon—Guide—Soldiery, &c.
Ghost of General Wolfe.
Carleton. Commander in Chief in Quebec, and Governor of Canada.
Maclean. Colonel in the British Forces in Quebec.

ACT I.

SCENE I.

Camp before Quebec.
Enter Montgomery and Arnold.
Montgomery.
The third hour turning from the midnight watch,
By no ray visited of moon or star,
Marks to our enterprize, its proper date.
Now from above, on every hill and copse,
The airy element, descends in snow,
And with the dark winds, from the howling north,
Commix'd and driven on the bounded fight,
Gives tumult privacy, and shrouds the march;
So that our troops, in reg'ment or brigade,

May undistinguish'd, to the very walls,
Move up secure, and scale the battlements:
May force the barr'd gates, of this lofty town,
On all sides, bound, with artificial rock,
Of cloud-cap'd eminence, impregnable.
Impregnable, so long, and fully proof,
To all our batt'ry, and sharp cannonade;
But yet assisti'd with vigour, and full force,
This morn, I trust, we enter it, in storm,
And, from its bosom long defiled, pluck,
This scorpion progeny, this mixed brood,
Of wild-wood Savages, and Englishmen,
Who 'gainst their brethren, in unrighteous cause,
With cruel perfidy, have waged war,
Against their brethren, did I say? O God!—
Are we the offspring of that cruel foe,
Who late, at Montreal, with symbol dire,
Did call, the Savages, to taste of blood,
Life-warm, and streaming, from the bullock slain,
And with fell language, told it was the blood,
Of a Bostonian, made the sacrament?
At this, the Hell-hounds, with infernal gust,
To the snuff'd wind, held up, their blood-stain'd mouths,
And fill'd, with howlings, the adjacent hills.

Arnold.
Yes, brave Montgomery, I have heard the tale;
When from the brow, of many a desart wood,
And wolf-resounding mountain top, came down
The yelling Savage. Onondago wild,
Fierce Outawae, and half extinguish'd brood,
Of aged Ifuron, native habitant,
Of those high plains, where long their wigwams stood,
And margined the banks of Quebec's streams.
With those the Mohawk, from the nether lakes,
Oneida, Shawnese, and an hundred names
Of uncouth accent; Savages inspir'd,
With horrid passion, of inhuman war,
By these our butchers butchers of the ox

First slain, symbolical, in place of us.
For, while the blood, ran streaming from the wound,
The Indian warrior, tasted it, and sware,
By that fell Demon, whom he hates and prays,
That thus the blood of each Bostonian shed,
Should slake his appetite; which God avert,
And on their heads, the imprecation turn,
Who, with dire artifice, of story feign'd,
Wrought up the Savage, to such pitch of rage.
But, as for us, let indignation fire
Each patriot bosom, to resent the thought,
And turn to them, the meaning and the curse,
Of this dire contico, at Montreal.
All things, are favouring to our enterprize;
The scaling-ladders, for the assault, prepar'd,
And Heaven, the signal, which we waited for,
In this snow-driven storm, presents to us;
Nor is there one man, in that well tryed band,
Which many a region, hath travers'd with me,
But will exult, to hear the orders given.

Montgomery.
I know it Arnold, and revere their worth,
Who swiftly roused, at their country's call,
And nobly resolute, have brav'd all pain,
In such long march, of fifteen hundred miles,
Far from the south-west of Virginia's bounds,
To Massachusetts-Bay. Thence, after toil,
Sustain'd, in combat, with tyrannic foes,
O'er many a region, dolorous and drear,
Have pierc'd the wilds, to Canada's cold clime.
O gallant souls! a sacrifice more rich,
If such should fall, was never offer'd up.
On hill or mountain, to the sacred cause
Of Liberty; not even when Cato died
At Utica, or many a Roman brave,
With noble Brutus, on Pharsalia's plain.

Arnold.
Nor less eulogium, have those merited,
Who, from New-England's happy streams, more north.
With me experienced, and saw the fate
Of war's sore tragedy, on Bunker's-Hill.
And since, in common, with th' embodyed force.
Have borne sharp famine, and severest toil,
While up the rapid Kennebec, they stem'd,
Th' impetuous torrent, or at carrying place,
O'er broad morass, deep swamp, and craggy wild,
Urg'd their rough way. Thence over hill,
And dreary mountain top, to where Chaudiers
Doth mix his wave, with the Saint Lawrence tide.
And now encamp'd on the Abraham heights,
Await your orders to attack the town;
This proud-wall'd town, whose haughtiness hath mock'd
The incessant batt'ry, and sharp cannonade,
T' effect a breach; but soon possess'd by us,
Shall amply recompense the watching, cold,
Famine, and labour, which we have sustain'd;
And yet sustain, while with the wintry year,
We now contend, digging the ice-bound soil,
In deep entrenchment, and laboriously
Erecting batt'ries of hard frost congeal'd,
'Midst arrowy fleet, and face-corroding storm.

Montgomery.
Then gallant officer, be this our plan.
First Livingston, with the Canadian troops,
March to the Palace gate, and with a feint,
Of swift annoyance, to the Upper town,
Keep them attentive, and their guns aloof;
While with the main force, by the river bank,
We storm the Lower town. I on this side,
Along the precipior, and that sad stream,
Which washes their redoubts; with equal force,

You, at the conflux, of the kindred tides,
St. Charles, and St. Lawrence, force your way.
Thus, under God, we haply may succeed,
And see, with joy of victory, to day,
Our standards planted, on Quebec's high walls.

Arnold.
The disposition, for the bold attack,
With all alacrity, shall be obeyed.
No shape of danger, shall deter my steps,
Swift moving, in this gallant enterprize.
I shun no combat, and I know no fear,
But count the honour a full recompense,
For ev'ry peril in this furious war,
If men in after times, shall say of me,
“Here Arnold lies, who with Montgomery fought,
“Stemming the torrent of tyrannic sway.”

The Honourable the Continental Congress, appear to have been so struck, with this fact, which was amply authenticated to them, in a letter from his Excellency General Schuyler, as to have caused it to be published a second time, for the consideration of every American. What indeed could serve, to give us a more horrible idea, of the diabolical spirit of tyranny, than to have presented to our view, General Carlton, or his officers, by his direction, convening the Indians, at Montreal; roasting an ox, and inviting them, under that symbol, to partake of a Bostonian? I know this may be called an Address to the Savages, in their own dialect, which is by strong imagery and visible representation; but certainly it is a style of figurative language, which only the imagination of an arbitrary and cruel Englishman, could on our age have conceived.

The Poet Eschylus, painting a transaction, which happened, in the barbarous times of Greece, though he had at his command the whole tribe of Furies, Demons, and triple-headed Monsters, with which the ancients had stored their infernals; yet could draw nothing from them, so black and terrible, as a representation of this nature. Little did he think, that what he then, in the heat of poetic fury, had conceived, would one day be reduced to matter of fact and plain practice, by those who call themselves a civilized people. In a dramatic piece, stiled The Seven Commanders at Thebes, we have the description.

The seven dark Chiefs, in gloomy attitude,
Stood round; and o'er the brazen shield, they slew,
A sullen bull; then plunging deep their hands
Into the seaming gore, with oaths invoked,
Fierce war, mad fury, and blood-thirsting rage.

This would seem to be the very original whence General Carleton had copied the idea of his cantico; so true is it that the same black passions, will in every age, produce the same dark thoughts and purposes.

SCENE II.

Montgomery and Macpherson.
Montgomery.
It seems to me, Macpherson, that we tread,
The ground of some romantic fairy land,
Where Knights in armour, and high combatants,
Have met in war. This is the plain where Wolfe,
Victorious Wolfe, fought with the brave Montcalm;
And even yet, the dreary snow-clad tomb,
Of many a'hero, slaughter'd on that day,
Recals the memory, of the bloody strife.
I believe not superstition, or the dreams,
Of high wrought fantasy, that fill the brain,
But yet methinks, Macpherson, that I feel,
Within this hour, some knowledge of my end;

Come sure presentment, that you and I,
This day, shall be with them, shall leave,
Our breathless bodies on this mortal soil.
But this allotment, should it be our case,
Fear not young soldier, for our cause is just,
And all those failings we are conscious of,
Shall in the bosom, of our God repose,
Who looks with mercy, on the sons of men,
And hides, their imperfections, with his love.
Say not young soldier, that thy life was short,
In the first bloom, of manhood, swift cut off.
All things are mortal, but the warriors fame;
This lives eternal, in the mouths of men.

Macpherson.
The light is sweet, and death is terrible;
But when I left, my father, and my friends,
I thought of this, and counted it but gain,
If fighting bravely, in my country's cause,
I tasted death, and met an equal fame,
With those at Lexington, and Bunker's-hill.

Montgomery.
Sweet fame, young here, shall attend thy years;
And link'd, in friendship, as we are link'd in death,
Our souls, shall mount, and visit those fair hills,
Where never-dying bards, and heroes stray.
There, Wolfe, shall hail us, and the great Montcalm,
Shall bind the amarinth around our brows.
For mighty warriors, though opposed here,
There live serene, in heavenly amity,
And walk, and taste, of conference sublime.
Go then, young soldier, and these orders bear,
To Colonel Campbell, and to Livingston.
The disposition, for the attack, is here.
Bid them be ready, when the morning breaks,

To try this city, by an escalade.

SCENE III.

Montgomery.
Solus.
I fear not death, but yet it gives me pain.
When the soft passion, of my soul, flows out,
In sweet remembrance of Amanda's love,
Whom I have left, where the swift Hudson's stream;
Circles the shady hills; left to the chance,
Of various war, and the rude Savage foe,
Who yet may penetrate, that happy clime,
And mix the mother's with the infant's blood.
Yes, sweet Amanda, soon disjoin'd in life,
And the connubial-cord, loos'd and cut off,
I must resign thee, to the will of Heaven.
The child unborn, that in thy womb thou bear'st,
Its father may not know, may never climb
The knee paternal, or call forth a smile,
From his fond countenance. To thee O God,
I leave my spouse, sweet children, and each friend,
That mourns behind. Shew them thy grace,
And tender mercy, in the walks of life,
And from its changes, rescue them at last,
To the fruition of thyself, in joy.

ACT II.

SCENE I.

Macpherson and Cheesman.
Cheesman.
The hour is dreary, and all Nature dark;
But yet, Macpherson, there is something more,
In melancholy, and a mind o'ercast:
In this presentiment of some sad chance,

This throb of heart, that bodes fatality,
And is not cowardice, but God himself,
That in the knowledge, of the future ill,
Doth touch the mind, with apprehension strange,
And feeling sensible of its approach.
You see Macpherson, I am gayly dress'd.
Say, is it pride of the departing soul,
That one would chuse, to have the body fair,
And vestured in comely, decent garb,
E'en, when it lies, yet tombless, on the field?
Or is it hope, that thus the victor foe,
May feel a kinder thought, and shed one tear,
While it surveys the body trim and neat,
By their own hand, of the sweet life bereft?
Here is a purse, my brother, some small gold,
Which found upon me, by the ruthless search,
Of plundering soldiery, in quest of spoil,
May pay for burial, should I fall this day,
In this attempt, upon Quebec's high walls.
Haply, for sake of this, they may forbear,
To treat my pale corpse with indignant rage,
To dogs, and fowls of Heaven, casting it,
Or to the beasts, and mountain wolves, a prey.

Macpherson.
O gentle Cheesman, such prophetic touch,
On the warm casement of the busy mind,
Doth oft forewarn with certainty, and oft,
Is but illusion, and the fancy's dream:
But be it so, that death should be our lot,

On this sad day, it is the price we give,
For that rich ever-green, of peerless praise,
Which they receive, who for their country die
The ev'ning past, when first the twilight grey,
With sober step, came o'er the western hills,
In meditation, to that spot I came,
Where, the victorious Wolfe, in battle fell.
There as I stood, profound in mighty thought,
It seem'd to me, a consecrated ground,
Not to be trod on with unholy feet.
I lov'd the laurel bush that grew just by,
And, could have kiss'd the stones, that round about,
Lay scatter'd on the soil; so much the worth,
And praise of this great man, intranced me,
In pleasing reverie. O, thought I then,
One day, it may be mine, in the green earth,
To lie, while the young warrior, visiting,
The solitary spot, shall bless my fame,
And say, Macpherson, I could die with you.
For my ambition, is to die like Wolfe,
Wept by his country, and by many a bard,
Of silver-tongue, high storied in his urn.

Cheesman.
Come then my brother, let one lost embrace,
Seal up our souls, in expectation firm,
To the fair bliss above. One soft embrace,
And bid farewell—with this sweet chearing hope,
That if we fall, and leave the earth to day,
Our names shall live, and with immortal Wolfe,
And the ennobled of the future world,
Be ever mentioned, and prais'd in song.

It is remarked by critics on the poet Homer, that the courage of his favourite Achilles appears in the highest point of view, from this circumstance, that though it was foretold by the oracle, that he was to fall at the siege of Troy, yet he had the bravery to engage in that expedition, and in every attack, led the van of his countrymen.

SCENE II.

Burr and Macpherson.
Macpherson.
What says my friend, to the heroic thought,

Of storming this fair capital to day?

Burr.
'Tis full of peril, but it gives me joy,
And, wakes the bosom, with ideas warm'd,
Of high invention, and bold thought in war.
First in the van, let me bespeak a place,
Close by the General, for he loves to lead,
His gallant troops, and not to send them on,
With, go my lads, and scale that lofty wall.
But come, brave soldiers, of fair worth approv'd,
And follow me, this bright illustrious day,
Through yielding dues, to triumph and to fame.
You say, this day, we shall attack Quebec?
O, I have long impatient, waited it;
And indignation, brac'd up every nerve,
When I have thought, of this fell British foe;
Who still insatiate, with full revenue,
Drawn from our commerce to their shores confin'd,
Must needs enslave us, and mark all their own.
Whether we land possess, or property,
Of freer nature; still at their command,
We must resign it, and content ourselves,
With some peculium, slave-like article,
Which these our matters, may vouchsafe to give.
Yes, as the culprit Gibeonite, the Jew,
Did serve ingloriously, so we
Must draw them water, and hew for them wood,
That these our task masters, may then forbear,
To cut our throats. O wond'rous lenity!
'Tis passing gracious of these generous men;
And better far than the Egyptian King,
Who sentenced the Israelites to toil,
And slew the children, on the mother's breast.
Not yet the Englishmen, have come to this.
Perhaps, let me indulge the thought, perhaps,
Not, till increasing numbers, give alarm,

Will they denounce, in proclamation dire,
Unpitying slaughter to the softest age.

Macpherson.
With equal hare, I scorn their purposes;
And on my mind, my father's parting words,
Make deep impression, for he knew them well.
My son, said he, take this, your father's sword,
For I have grasp'd, and often wielded it.
Yes, I have fought, in the severest war;
And in Britannia's very cause I sought,
Who now would stab me, and drink from my veins,
The poor remainder of the blood I spilt.
Come here my son, look on this wounded joint—
This injured joint—remainder of that arm,
Which I have lost for baneful Englishmen.
O Britain, Britain, I will hold this up,
To the wide world, as witness of the love,
Which once, I bore you, and did testify.
I say, my son, look on this injured joint—
And let the idea, to revenge, wake up,
The hottest passion of a warriors soul.
Where you shall meet an Englishman, tell this,
And in his ear, exclaim—ingratitude.
Exclaim—and with a filial piety,
Give, for your father, one life-severing blow,
Making his head start from his shoulders. God!
Will they devour me, who have fought for them?
Let not soft mercy, turn your weapon's edge.
Fight valiantly—in every charge be first:
Nor with the name of cowardice, disgrace
Your father's reputation. Go my son,
And Heav'n protect you in its cause and mine.
These words, sweet Burr, yet harrow up my soul,
And urge me forth, impetuous, to the field.
Come on, and with our General place ourselves,
We must attend him, where he leads to war.

ACT III.

SCENE I.

Hendricks, Oswald, and Chaplain.
Oswald.
Hail! noble Hendricks, this auspicious morn.

Hendricks.
To our fair arms, auspicious, let it be,
But to the foe indignant, and severe,
Like that sad day, when in Beth-horon's vale,
The Jewish Capthin, smote the Canaanite,
By Heaven's assistance, which, upon them rain'd,
Her rocky hail—

Oswald.
—Look not for miracles,
Or hand of Heaven, heroic youth, to day.
For the late world enjoying what is past,
Of supernatural display to man,
Is left to general laws; no more vouchsaf'd,
Uncommon aid, of the dividing sea,
So swift o'erwhelming the Egyptian King,
Or of that Angel, who is one night slow,
So many squadrons of the Assyrian host.

Chaplain.
I grant, sweet youth, we may not hope from Heav'n,
The sudden vengeance of red fiery wrath,
To blast the foe; but yet the Almighty reigns,
O'er every act, and enterprize of man.
To frown upon, or bless it with his smile.
He unperceiv'd, can from the unchanged course,
Of Nature's settled laws, with ease bring forth,

Events particular; with equal ease,
As when its mound, the mighty ocean pass'd,
In Noah's day, and deluged the world.
Or when an earthquake, rending the deep earth,
Took in its bosom, those that mutined,
Against their Captain, in the wilderness.
Rest then assur'd, that heavenly Providence,
In this late age, accompanies our steps,
And guides our every action, prospering them,
Or laying the expectation, and high hope, in dust.
He can give courage to the warrior's breast,
Or, if it please him, can deject the soul,
With power invisible. He has his cloud,
To wrap the starry firmament of night,
When the skill'd General steals upon the foe,
Or when he prudently, in some retreat,
Draws off the wearied troops. He has his fog,
Which providentially may form a veil,
In the sun's face, and the deep council hide.
The Almighty reigns, distributing to each,
That which we call our lot. Not one hair falls,
Of our head, to the ground, but it is numbered.
He reigns, and gives to innocence, its due reward,
But to the guilty, punishment and death.

Oswald.
Then if the guilty shall have punishment,
May we not hope, that this proud cruel foe,
Shall meet an ample share, and yield this day,
In battle vanquished. If Heav'n protect,
Distressed innocence, and injured right,
We sure may hope, that this our patriot cause,
Shall triumph finally, and scorn the rage,
Of Britain's parliament and bloody King.

Chaplain.
A firm persuasion, hath possess'd my mind,
That this fair cause, shall triumph finally;
But the complexion, of the ensuing hour,
We cannot tell. It may be fortunate,
And yet as partial, to the whole event,
It may be clouded, and deep wrought with woe.
Just so the morning of an April day,
When spring repulses the rude wintry year,
I buried of, in the descending rain;
But soon, the warm sun bursts the watry cloud,
Gives chearful noon, and bids the evening mild,
On herbs and flowers, shed only her soft dews.

Hendricks.
I am resign'd to the dispose of Heav'n;
Let whatsoever be our fate to day,
Or my particular lot. Yet I could wish,
Once more to see the Susquehanna banks,
My native rocks, and sweet resounding hills,
Where I have fondly stray'd, delightful stream,
Where I have sported, in the summer's day,
And bath'd my limbs, and angling from a rock,
Caught with my father, the too cred'lous fish,
That silvered the tide. My father lives
With aged hoary locks, the frost of years.
'Tis mine to aid his swift-declining strength,
And hold his trembling steps—

Oswald.
—Come Gentlemen,
The troops, have early snatch'd a short repast,
And now to arms, brave Arnold, leads them forth;
In his division rang'd, we scale the wall.

SCENE II.

Hendricks and Arnold.
Arnold.
'Tis yours, brave Hendricks, to command the guard,
Of this encampment, while we storm the town.

Hendricks.
Since you vouchsafe the epithet of brave,
Let me deserve it, and go forth with you.
Some may be found, who would prefer this post,
Which, I shall hold, reluctantly. No Sir;
If I have merited one thought from yoe.
Of praise, or confidence, in this long march,
And perseverance, thro' the wilderness,
Have me excus'd, from such inglorious task.
I would go forth, and mingle in the attack.
That when old age comes on me, and slow years,
I may have things to tell, atchiev'd in war,
Of which, I bore a part. Then shall the youth,
Encircling me, request the hoary head,
Of this fam'd siege; who first assail'd the wall—
What warriors fell—who wounded in the attack—
How long 'twas fought—and how we gain'd the town.

Arnold.
I honour, Sir, the high heroic worth,
Of this fair choice, and shall immediately,
Supply that station, with some other troops.
I count it happy that I go with men,
Who thirst for danger, and renown in arms.
Your station shall be chang'd, and in the van,
You shall have scope to shew your fortitude,
And purchase glory, that shall never die.

SCENE III.

Montgomery and Campbell:
Campbell.
We hold ourselves, in readiness, what time,
We have your orders to parade in arms.

Montgomery.
In some few moments, when the early day,
Shall mix its breaking with departing shades,
And give a dubious light. This interval,
In conversation, we may here, exhaust.
Far other thought, O Campbell, fill'd my mind,
When first, a soldier, on the Abraham's heights,
I stood in arms. Then, in Britannia's cause,
I drew my sword, and charg'd the rival Gaul.
I felt for her a patriot's generous heat;
And step'd, exultingly, when fair Quebec,
Saw British standards on her rocky walls.
Full, in my memory, I retain the view;
Each circumstance, as if but yesterday.
Here Monckton stood; there Townshand rang'd himself;
And here, great Wolfe, in noble strength of soul,
Array'd the battle, and the men in arms.
O mighty Wolfe, if yet, thy warlike shade,
Revisitest these heights, and rocky streams,
Be witness here, in this unnatural strife,
Where a mad mother doth her children stab.
You, when you fought, did not unsheath the sword
Against your countrymen, and younger sons;
Did not excite, with cruel artifice,
The wild-wood Savage of the gloomy hill,
To drink Bostonian blood. No mighty shade;
Britannia then was free herself; her King,
Call'd not for butchers, to secure his sway

T'yrannical, and to be held with blood.
Unhappy reign of an inhuman George!
I saw it early, and withdrew myself,
To sweet retirement, on the Hudson's banks.
And am persuaded, that had mighty Wolfe,
Surviv'd his victory, his native isle,
O'er-run with parasites, that drink the looks
Of flatter'd Majesty, and base-born Lords,
Would have disgusted him. This western land,
With shades, and solitudes, and wood crown'd hills
Had better pleas'd. He could have lov'd her glades,
O'er-hung with poplars, and the bending bench,
Fan'd by the Zephyr's gale. He could have lov'd,
The budding orchard, and the oak tree grove,
And thought, no more, of luxuries enjoy'd
With prostitution of the free-born mind
If Wolfe had liv'd, would he have drawn his sword,
In Britain's cause—in her unrighteous cause,
To chain the American, and bind him down?
O no, his soul, by Nature elegant,
With liberal sentiment and knowledge, stor'd,
Would not have suffered it; I rather think,
Nay, I well know it, that himself had led,
Perhaps, once more, an army to Quebec,
To drive these tyrants out. He had obey'd
Rather, the dictates of an upright soul,
Than the commandment of a tyrant King
But now the time, that we draw forth in arms
Revolves to us. Then, through the standing tents,
Let us return, and with high thought of war,
Fire every bosom, with a martial glow.

ACT IV.

SCENE I.

Arnold
, to his Division.
Heroes, and patriots, who with me have borne,
Cold, watching, famine, and a thousand soils,

O'er dreary mountain, river, bog, and lake,
To these fam'd heights, and that besieged town,
Where your oppressors, and fierce foes are lodg'd.
Fierce foes, in hate, but not in battle fierce,
Since we have waited, and long challeng'd them,
To equal combat, and fair chance in war;
But yet they come not forth, on this wide plain,
To meet our arms, as when the warlike Gaul,
Led by Montcalm, did face the British foe;
And tho' their fortune, gave them not the day,
Contended long, and bravely fought for it.
Yes, we have waited, but they come not forth,
On equal ground, to mix in gallant play,
Of fair hostility. 'Tis then resolv'd,
In storm, brave souls, to force the city gates,
And, with firm valour, from their dens drive out,
These cut-throat homicides. Shall we brave souls,
Lie on the cold ground, thus unsheltered
From rain, deep snow, and binding ice, and storm,
With but Heaven's canopy, while they possess
Yon noble buildings; chearful residence?
On then my countrymen, and drive them out,
To us, surrendering up the ample halls,
Aspiring domes, and structures of Quebec.

SCENE II.

Gen. Montgomery
to his Army.
My friends, and countrymen, of worth approv'd,
And nobly resolute, in this campaign,
From that first lay we gain'd Ticonderogue,
To Crown-Point taken, and the fort Chamblee,
St. John's strong garrison, and Montreal
The hour is come, when one important stroke,
Against this capital, this proud Quebec,
May wrest from Britain, her possessions claim'd,
And to the Thirteen States, add Canada.

The Frenchmen wish it, for they hate the rule,
Of sway monarchial, experienced,
And left unwillingly, when mighty Wolfe,
Subdu'd them into happiness, of which,
They since are sensible, and scorning laws,
By Britain 'stablished, now risk themselves,
On our fair patronage. Let then, my friends,
Our swords protect them, in each privilege,
And sacred right, which we claim birthright to.
Peers of the vicinage, shall try their suits.
No hand shall drag their free-born yeomanry
To death, and punishment, in climes remote.
No standing army shall remain, to spoil
The daughter's virgin innocence, or bathe
Their hands, in the sons blood, relentlessly.
Yet, fellow soldiers, if you exercise,
That noble spirit, which our cause inspires,
This day shall terminate, the bold career,
Of early tyranny in this north clime,
And drive far hence, the hell-born progeny,
With speed precipitate and fear compell'd
To leave the dry land and embark the wave—
To leave the dry land, which beneath them groans,
And feels the pressure of malignant sin.
Yes, these sad plains, beneath their pressure, groan;
St. Lawrence stream, weeps as it passes by;
Quebec's high buildings, echo in complaint,
And Nature sickens with the infernal crew.
Nor strange is it, for sure the miracle,
Would rather be, if earth, and conscious Heaven,
Could bear their rank impiety, their deeds
Of damned horror, shocking mortal ears.
As late, when offering up a roasted ox.
They call'd the Savages to taste the blood,
Till a Bostonian roasted in like sort,
Should give sweet relish and appease their rage.
Come on brave souls, and spoil their appetite.
But halt my troops—let first with upright thought,

Our prayer ascend to that Almighty Power,
Who guides the wheels of Providence, and rules
In empire over man, to bless our arms
With unstain'd victory. The Chaplain this,
As it is usual, in our names require.

Chaplain.
O thou, the God, and framer of the world,
High thron'd in light, and glory excellent!
The tempest and the wind obey thy word;
At thy command, the ebbing tide steals off,
With humble waters, from the assaulted shores;
And, as the wild waves, so the heart of man,
Is turn'd, at thy rebuke. Turn then, O God,
The imagination of Britannia's King,
From this fell purpose of reducing us
To slavery dire. Or, if his heart more obdurate
Than rock of adamant, resist thy grace;
Let not the hostile, and oppressive acts,
Meet triumph, and o'erwhelm us in the effect.
Our cause is just, we dare to call it so,
Even in thy presence, whom bright truth surrounds,
And sun-beam judgment gilds thy radiant throne.
O then, let uprightness, and truth prevail,
And these rude Britons, like Leviathan,
In the rough sea, be hook'd and turned back;
Or with the dragon of the infernal pit,
Chain'd down from hurting us. Soon may those years,
Those thousand years, in smooth-stream'd flow, succeed,
When the Arch-tyrant, Belzebub, confin'd,
With perjured Kings, and Ministers, below,
Shall leave the world, to harmony and peace.
Wash clean, O God, our sin affected souls,
In the Redeemer's blood; that, no foul stain,
Of taint original, or act of ours,
Yet unrepented of, may form a shade,
Between thy smiles, and our fair hopes to day.

Inspire each bosom, with cœlestial heat
Of sacred fortitude, steel up the soul,
To resolution, and heroic might,
Of extreme hardiness, and o'er our heads,
Raise thy broad shield, to turn aside the aim
Of swift-wing'd death, and anguish giving wounds.
But, if in Sovereignty, it is thy will,
To cloud the scene, and rather bear from us,
Some spirit doom'd to meet the approach of death,
O let it flourish in thy immortal love,
And take sweet floods of elemental joy,
With kindred spirits, and seraphic just,
Made pure, and perfect, and resembling thee.

Montgomery.
God's will be done, and let us humbly trust,
Not in ourselves, but in his grace divine.
Come, march the van—March yet more speedily
But stop, dear Sir, your place is not the field;
I would not have a gowns-man take the sword.

Chaplain.
The cause is sacred, and doth sanctify,
An action singular; I would go on,
If you forbid it not; it is my choice,
Full in the center of the war, to mix
In the hot combat, and the battle's rage.

Montgomery.
It is permitted, Sir, I see you have
A warrior's spirit, in a gowns-man's breast.
I love a clergy-man, the aid-de-camp,
As I may say, of the great God, to man;
Or rather him that holds the flag of truce,
And tells of mercy to the fin-slain'd soul.
But I have thought too little, of these things.

O, had I time, I could talk much with you,
Of man's prime happiness, and Heaven's grace.
Come on brave soldiery, and linger not—
I could talk much with you, of penitence,
High faith, and love—Move on brave countrymen—
A swift approach, may save us much hard toil—
Yet unalarm'd the town lies fast in sleep—
But here a messenger—see what he brings.

Messenger.
Alas! the intention of our arms is known.
I saw a scout just turning from the walls,
And have out ran him, who inform'd me thus
That a deserter, from our camp, this night,
Gave swift intelligence, and now the foe,
Lie on their arms, and wait our first attack:
Each barrier foil; the engineers prepar'd,
With matches lighted, and directed guns.

Montgomery.
Unhappy circumstance! but God our aid,
We may atchieve, and carry the assault,
E'en in the face of their collected force.
Come, give the wide-stream'd standard to the gale,
And march, brave souls. Say guide is this the way
Say, must we march along that precipice?

Guide.
Along the precipice, by these redoubts.

Montgomery.
My God! the task is amply perilous;
But why, alas, why halts my infantry?
Come then, brave officers, march on with me;
They sure, will follow, where their General leads—

March on with me, and storm this first redoubt.
One fire, brave souls, and push with bayonet.
The battery's ours. These slave-born renegades,
Dare not confront us. Slavery, slavery dire,
Cowards the spirit, and unmans the soul.
Now to the next, my gallant officers;
Mean time, young Burr, wait and conduct the troops.

Burr
, Aid-de Camp.
Why, Gentlemen, with such slow tardy steps,
Moves up the van? See where your General leads,
With few attendants; yet the first redoubt,
So well defended and secur'd, is ours.
Move up brave soldiers, and preserve your fame.

Montgomery.
The post is ours; the second barrier storm'd;
But in our troops, why such a tardiness?
I must fall back, and with deep-piercing words,
Prevent their ignominy. Gentlemen,
What means this phlegm, this cold and mildew damp,
Which turns the current of the life-warm blood
To winter's ice, and freezes up the tide,
Of noble, bold, and manly resolution?
Why, Gentlemen, so slow and heavily,
Moves up the van-guard, to attack that foe
Which oft we vanquish'd? Ticonderogue
Could not defend them, nor strong-barr'd Crown-point.
Driven o'er the lakes, we beat them, at St. John's;
At Montreal; and now it were a slain,
Of ignominy, not to be retriev'd.
If sickly cowardice, phrenetic power
Of some sad circumstance, prevent, this day,
To storm this capital, this last retreat,
Where they have shut themselves. O this,
This is the juncture critical, the point

Of time clapsing, which may not return,
Which makes it ours to crush the tyranny,
By vengeful Britain, here established.
The poor Canadians, whose effects and lives,
Hang on the fortune of our enterprize,
Shall imprecate dire curses on our steps,
I falling back, from such fair promises,
We now desert them, fenceless and unarm'd,
A certain prey, because they gave us aid,
To savages, and haughty Englishmen.
Come on my soldiers, let me pray your haste,
By all that lives in man, of noble fortitude.
By this your country, and those natal ties,
Which binds the memory to the place of birth;
By your spoil'd liberty, and injur'd rights;
By the religion, which you owe to God;
By your own safety, and the love of life.
Come on my gallant countrymen, come on;
Or if you come not on, at least do this;
Advance to me, and in this deep-pain'd breast,
Pour one sure shot, and ease my amazed soul,
My bleeding soul, of what I feel for you.
Move on, my countrymen, move on;
I first, myself, will in the charge advance.

Cheesman.
Nay, rather, Sir, do not expose yourself;
For much artillery, that strong pass defends,
Which soon must rake us; and should you the head,
And source of action, be cut off from us,
The trembling limbs must loose their energy,
And the fair enterprize, abortive prove
Let me advance, with this small chosen band,
And bear the first fire of the cannonade.

Montgomery.
Your warm benevolence, heroic youth,
Demands my gratitude; I honour you,

And this small band, that bears me company;
But such, the backwardness, of these my troops,
That of necessity, I risk myself.
Can I survive their infamy, their shame?
Nay death, swift death, is rather my sad choice;
And God hath sent it—But alas, for you.
My sons, my brothers, who are join'd with me,
In equal fate, on this unhappy day.

Burr
, Aid-de-Camp.
Let Heav'n be clouded, and her face wrapt up,
In equal gloom with this deed tragedy.
Montgomery slain, and all my fairest hopes,
In this sad hour, cropt off and withered!
O father, father, groaning, fainting, dead!
Let me embrace thee to my grief-sick heart,
And pour my warm soul in thy bleeding veins,
Wet with the crimson of thy noble blood,
Unchang'd, I'll wear these sprinkled garments home,
And shew my countrymen each ruddy drop,
Each ruddy drop, and with my words wake up,
In every breast, susceptible of rage,
The sullen anger of an injured soul.
O, I could follow from the impoverish'd world,
With thy great spirit mingle mighty man,
And visit scenes invisible, and new
To the released soul. O bleeding corpse,
Let me not leave you to the insulting foe,
Who will exult and trample on thy tomb,
Or tear thy body uninhum'd, expos'd
To the wild Savages, or birds of Heav'n.
O, no, the vultures shall not have thy corpse,

If I can bear it from the blood-stain'd field,
On these poor shoulders. Sight deplorable!
What youth is this pierc'd thro' with streaming wounds
It is Macpherson, who is likewise fall'n;
Fall'n alas, and with him every charm
Of conversation, and behaviours grace.
With comely beauty, ravishing the heart.
Sweet youth, most lovely in thy shape and mein,
Gay, pleasant, chearful, courteous and tost
To thy companion, as the summers gale
Loose scattering roses. See, alas! the change;
The mournful ruins, which grim death has made.
Eclips'd and dim the Heav'n-sparkling eye,
The fair skin pallid, and the lithsome joints
Cold, stiff, and motionless. But who is this?
Ah! hapless Cheesman, art thou likewise slain
Belov'd companion, of my jocund years
Tall, graceful, manly in thy stately step;
The bloom of nineteen, withers on thy cheek—
The red lip quivers, and is red no more—
Deep sleep sits heavy on thy midnight brow—
O shades illustrious, join'd in equal fate,
Here will I slay and wake your funeral,
Covering your bodies from the snow-cold wind,
And bidding stars, in the noctural sky,
Come down and weep with me—

Chaplain.
Not so, fond stripling, but retire with me,
The dead themselves, insensible of pain,
Or ignominy, to their bodies shewn,
Fear not the tyrant. Haste and save thyself
For in swift solly from the western gates,
The crafty foe aims to encompass us.
Away, sweet youth, accelerate thy speed,
And save thy valour for a better hour.

Burr
, Aid-de-Camp.
Nay, see that form, in obscure march this way,
With shadowy sword, stuck in the incircling zone:
His wrist bound up, and bleeding wound before,
Just where the jasper faint embass'd in gold,
Sits on his warrior breast. My heart is sad.
O awful, sober shade, if thou art come
From ghostly kingdoms dreary and unknown,
To walk the earth and choose a solemn scene
Congenial with thyself, detain with me.
There lies our General, brave Montgomery slain;
And here sweet Cheesman, gentle, placid youth.
This was Macpherson, whom in life I knew;
And O pale form, if you can weep one tear,
Be it for him in soft compassion shed.
He was the flower and hyacinth of youths,
So fair, so lovely, that he ravished
Each heart that knew him—ravished the love,
The heart-warm love of every soul that gaz'd
On his soft beauty, and first rising years.

The Ghost of General Wolfe.
From realms celestial and sweet fields of light,
I come once more to visit this sad spot,
New-ting'd and red'ning with a hero's blood;
With the rich blood, Montgomery, and these youths,
Of this same ground, so immaturely doom'd
To taste mortality, in their first years,
Amidst the hopes and bright ey'd premises,
Of early life, relentlessly cut off;
Not in contention with the rival Gaul,
But Britain's self, Medea-like, dispos'd
To tear her children, merciless of heart.
False-council'd King and venal Parliament!
Have I then sought, and was my life-blood shed,
To raise your power to this ambitious height,

Disdainful height, of framing laws to bind,
In cases whatsoever, free-born men,
Of the same lineage, name, and quality?
Have I then fought, and was my life-blood shed,
To lay foundation for such dire event,
That you, my friends, should bleed, alas! to day,
In opposition to the unrighteous aim
Of British power, by my atchievements, rais'd?
Yet must it be, for such the will of God,
Who wraps the dark night in a sable shade,
That thence clear light may spring, and a new morn,
Rise with fresh lustre on the hill and dale.
For from your death, shall spring the mighty thought
Of separation, from the step-dame rule
Of moon-struck Britain. Rage shall fire the breast
Of each American, and fathers hence,
Shall like Hamilcar at the altar, swear,
Their sons and Hannibals of future days,
To hold no more, conjunction, with the name
Of hard and cruel-hearted Englishmen.
But hence remain, as nations of the world,
In war their enemies, in peace their friends.
Yes, from your death shall amply vegetate,
The grand idea of an empire new,
Clear independance and self-ballanc'd power,
In those fair provinces, United States,
Each independent, yet rein'd in and brac'd,
By one great council, buckling them to strength,
And lasting firmness of immortal date.
O happy empire, 'stablished in truth,
Of high wrought structure, from first principles;
In golden commerce, and in literature,
Of many a bard, and wisdom writing sage,
High flourishing, and filling length of time,
With peerless glory and immortal acts.
In this sweet hope, soft-mourning, gentle youth,
That look'st so sadly on this scene of woe,
Be amply chear'd. Full recompence

In retribution, of dire loss in war,
Awaits these murderers, yet hence compel'd
To reimbark, ingloriously struck down
From every hope to win the Continent.

Sir Charles Lisle beholding that sad spectacle, the dead body of his dearest friend, fell upon it and kissed it, as if he meant to breathe into it another soul—Observations on the life of Sir Charles Lucas, in Lloyd's State Worthies.

ACT. V.

SCENE I.

Arnold, with his Division.
Arnold.
Hard by the conflux of these sister tides,
It is determin'd, that we storm the wall.
This is the place, as fame reports to us,
By Montmorenci, where the Frenchmen lay,
T' oppose the British arms, what time great Wolfe
Rode on the bosom of that winding stream,
And meditated a debarkment here.
A shot—come on my veteran soldiery—
The salutation of their cannonade
Return with equal compliment. Wheel round
And circle this redoubt. Some rifle-men
Advance before, in silent ambuscade,
And pick them from that eminence. Long us'd
To strew the swift deer on the mountain top,
You need no council to direct your fire,
Save this, brave souls, take down their officers.
O, if this day, we stumble not, Quebec
With all her stores and magazines is ours
And thro' America the sound shall ring,
Of unstain'd victory; thro' all her groves,
The bold atchievment shall be mentioned,
And every hill shall echo with our fame.
A shot—A full platoon—Sad accident.
My ankle splintered with a musket ball.
I'm like Achilles, wounded in the heel,
And lose much blood. Be not discouraged,
My brave companions, but advance to fame.
I lose much blood, but yet will stay with you,
While one drop circles in the life-warm vein.

Oswald.
Nay Sir not so, the wound is dangerous.
Let these men bear you from the ensanguin'd field.
He faints with loss of blood. Support him hence
My gallant soldiers—let the wound be drest.

Morgan.
Come gallant souls, and patriots eminent,
Next in command on me devolves the task
Of Generalship; then may I pray from you
Obedience prompt, in this fair enterprize?
Say, shall I draw you off ingloriously,
With speediest step? or shall we yet advance,
And pour revenge on the indignant foe?
Think, Gentlemen, it will be base to leave
The brave Montgomery, who the other wall
By this time storming, will expect our aid,
And rendezvous in the besieged town.

Soldiery.
Lead on—lead on—we follow your command.

Morgan.
Come then brave Hendricks, in the charge advance
With these sure rifle-men, and from the mound
Of the first barrier pick the officers.

Oswald.
The barrier's ours, and the rude enemy
Lie in vast numbers wounded and cut off.

Captain Lamb.
Let some skill'd surgeon dress the wounded men;
For even an enemy, soft pity and love
Should have from us, if low and vanquished
They ask for mercy, and implore our aid.

Surgeon.
I dress them, Sir, with my best skill and speed,
For many lie deep wounded on the plain.
Some with their legs shot off, and some their arms
With grape-shot shatter'd. Some a musket-ball
Hath deeply pierc'd—

Captain Hendricks.
Bring up the ladders, plant them speedily.
One hundred Dollars Continental Bills,
Or gold of equal value to the man,
Distinguished with honour and fair fame,
Who first ascends the thirty-feet high wall.
Nor needs he doubt of firm and full support,
With the full corps of infantry, sustain'd.
Ye Pennsylvanian's, make the honour yours,
And shew the world, that Safquehanna's banks
Bred one adorn'd with this bright heraldry,
This standing monument of peerless praise,
That of this army, he the first assail'd
The ramparts of Quebec, swift-planting there,
The wide-stream'd standard, representative
With Thirteen streaks of ivory and blue,
The extended provinces. A fatal shot—

Oswald.
Fell tyranny, these are thy vestiges
In crimson battle and vindictive war,
Unpitying wag'd. The hero immature
Full in the vigour and fresh bloom of life,
With eye star-beaming, and high beating heart,
By thee cut down. The roseate glow of health
Fades on his cheek, and the sweet breath no more
Heaves in his bosom, yet soul-cheering thought!
Not unlamented, nor unwept he lies,
For many a tear, O Hendricks, shall bedew,
By Safquehanna's flood, the annual flowers,

When the sad story of thy mournful fate,
Is hence resounded to her rocky stream.

SCENE II.

Col. Maclean
returning from his success against the division under General Montgomery.
Thus far success, and noble victory
Breathes on our fortitude. The great arch-chief
Of this rebellion, that so rudely pierc'd
Redoubts and barriers hedging in his way,
Is now cut off. The great arch-chief and head
Of this their daring enterprize, struck down
From his rebellious hope of victory,
Lies haply prostrate on the snow-clad earth,
Discolouring with his blood its virgin tint.
Nought then remains, but that we swiftly charge
This other band, which the fam'd Arnold leads.
This still holds out, and would bespeak sore wil.
In opposition to our arms this day.

SCENE III.

Major Meggs.
We are surrounded by the enemy.
See where Maclean collecting their whole force,
Hems in our regiment, and cuts off retreat.
I did not dream of numbers in Quebec
To face at once our thus divided troops
With such superior force. Sure they have not
Repell'd Montgomery, from the assaulted wall,
And brought their whole force, to resist our arms?

Lamb.
Come engineers, bring that field piece to bear.
Ye gallant veterans, from the mountain stream

Of Hudson's river visiting New-York,
Shrink not from danger; 'tis the hero's joy
To live in thunder and the noise of war.
Light up with flame, the air's wide element,
And rock the deep ground with your cannonade.

SCENE IV.

Carleton,
from the wall of the Upper-Town, exposing the body of Montgomery.
Say rebel brood, why stubbornly maintain
That ground, encircled by superior force?
Why so reluctantly give up the field,
When now my squadrons from each fort and gate,
All opposition broke, collect themselves,
Pouring their whole fire on your shatter'd ranks?
Front, flank, and rear, nay, overhead the storm
Of battle rages; but if so much trust,
And hope of conquest plays upon your minds,
Behold the body of your General slain.
The great Montgomery bleeds upon the wall.

Lamb
to his Countrymen.
The hapless fortune of the day is sunk!
Montgomery slain, and wither'd every hope!
Mysterious Providence, thy ways are just,
And we submit in deep humility.
But O let fire or pestilence from Heaven,
Avenge the butchery; let Englishmen,
The cause and agents in this horrid war,
In tenfold amplitude, meet gloomy death.
What do I say? can hecatombs of slaves
And villains sacrific'd, repay one drop
Of this pure vital scarlet-streaming blood?
No, not ten thousand of life-gushing veins,
From perjur'd Kings, and venal parasites,
Can rise in value, to one heart-warm drop,

Of that pure patriot; yet this alone we can,
That in revenge, the battle be renew'd,
And indignation be the word to day.

Carleton.
Once more I offer you the terms of peace,
Ye stubborn combatants. If I'm oblig'd
To hold the battle up, and lose more men
Slain by your obstinacy; rest assur'd,
The gate of mercy shall be shut. No hope
Of quarter shall remain, but the red flag
Of blood hung out, shall amply testify
The irreversible consign of death.
Nor in sepulture of a grassy grave,
Shall you meet burial; but your carcases
Shall feed the fowls and vultures of the Heaven,
Left long expos'd, and rotting on the earth;
But on submission you shall be receiv'd,
With arms of love and pity honouring
Your noble valour eminent and great,
Who these three hours such odds have combated,
And struggled hard with us for victory.

Oswald.
Methinks no man, my hapless countrymen,
Can throw suspicion of base cowardice,
On my behaviour, or my words this day;
For I have fought and ventured with you,
Where the hot battle did most fiercely rage,
But in my judgment, we contend in vain,
And risk our persons, without equal chance,
Against this enemy. Fair terms and words,
By them are offer'd, better then submit
And take their mercy, than see butchered,
So many brave men, in such circumstance,
That nought avails their courage and bright flame

Of true heroic excellence approv'd.

Morgan.
True, gallant Oswald, we attempt in vain,
To urge the war with such unequal strength,
And disadvantage of encompass'd ground,
On our side, visible. Lay down your arms,
Then hapless countrymen, and put yourselves
On that fair law and custom 'stablished
'Mong christian nations, that the life be spar'd,
And with humanity and gentleness,
The victor foe shall treat his prisoners.

SCENE V.

Carleton
to the Prisoners.
Now in my power disarmed and reduc'd,
I will give scope, and scorn you with my tongue,
You vile rebellious progeny of wrath,
Fierce and malignant in Don Quixotism
Of moon-mad liberty. You Bedlam-brood,
You viper-lip'd, and serpent-hearted race,
Bred on the poison of soul fraud and hate,
Scum and off-scouring of humanity,
Whom laws of government to the sure cord
Have ever destined; and were it not,
That the black vengeance of your countrymen
Might dare retaliate, and gibbet up
Some British prisoner, each soul should hang,
And die, this day, in execrable form,
The death of traitors. Yet, whatever shape
Of suffering horrible, can be devis'd,
In dreary dungeon, and in obscure jail,
Cold, dark, and comfortless, and lacking bread,
Shall be your lot, snake venom'd parricides.
And first, three victims from your shattered band,
Must, to the Savages be given up.

Some three Bostanians, sacrific'd and slain,
To glut the appetite of Indian chiefs,
Who at our cantico, at Montreal,
Drank of the ox-blood, roasting his large limbs,
Symbolical of rebels burnt with fire.
Take these three men, ye Indians warriors,
And use them wantonly, with every pain,
Which flame's fierce element can exercise.
And with the sound of each loud instrument,
The drum, the horn, in wildest symphony
With your own howlings, shall the scene be grac'd,
Save, that in terror, oftentimes, a while
The noise shall cease, and their own cries be heard.

The Captives.
O gentle Sir, where are the promises
Of life untouched and fair acts of love?
Where is the memory of that faith and word,
That sacred honour, which a soldier wears?
Is there no mercy in the soul of man?
But O whatever we are doom'd to feel,
Of death, or torment, let it not be fire.
The flame is terrible, and none can bear,
On the soft eye, the scorching element;
The sinewy nerve bent up and withered;
The body rolling, crisping in the flames.
Let us be sentenced to some dark pit,
Or subterranean cavity, where light
Of sun, or star shall never cast a ray:
In some lone island destitute of food,
Let us be bound, and slowly waste ourselves,
With painful hunger, and life-pinching want
O could we but obtain immediate death,
By some sharp bayonet, or musket-ball,
Even should our bodies, afterwards be burnt,
And bones reduc'd to ashes in the flame.

Carleton.
Hah, I could laugh, to see your skeletons,
Unflesh'd, and whit'ning in the light-wood blaze.
(Aside to Maclean.)
But yet, Maclean, we dare not execute,
Stern justice due; for still the rebel foe,
That part of them which with Montgomery fought,
Recruit their forces and block up the gates;
And should we urge extremity of wrath,
It may be ours to taste an equal fate.
The chance of war is various and unfix'd.
Go then Maclean, and countermand the word
Of pain and burning to the Savages.

Restrain their wild rage with the certain hope
Of mirth, and cantico, and the war song,
To be indulg'd, with many a captive burnt,
If we prevail, and drive them from the walls.
(To the Captives.)
Yes, I could laugh, to see the flame involve,
With spiral wavings, your black carcases.
For so enhanc'd and aggravate your guils,
That well its merits every horrid woe
Denounc'd to murder, sacrilege, and sin
Through all its shapes; but yet the gentleness,
And meek-ey'd majesty of Britain's King,
Will not admit all stretch of punishment.
For Heaven's long suffering imitating, still

He waits your penitence, and better mind.
But this receive, in certainty of faith,
That if your countrymen persist t' oppose,
The peace and order of our government,
Our long endurance shall turn into rage
Of tenfold enmity; yes, perjured brood,
If soon they crush not each rebellious thought,
Keen torture shall excruciate their joints;
And if I conquer, Hell lend every plague,
To give them torment, in all shapes of death.
How then, vile scorpion, will you bear your fate;
The deep-struck tomahawk, in the trembling heart;
The curv'd knife, ready to unroof the scull;
And body roasted in slow-scorching fires.

Morgan.
Sad thought of cruelty, and outrage dire!
Not to be parallel'd, 'mongst human kind,
Save in the tales of flesh-devouring men,
The one ey'd Cyclops, and fierce Cannibal,
For what we hear of Saracen or Turk,
Mogul, or Tartar of Siberia,
Is far behind the deed of infamy,
And horror mixt, which Britons meditate.
Nature, herself, degenerate from the fall,
In the curs'd earth, can scarcely furnish out,
So much black poison, from the beasts and herbs,
As swells the dark hearts of these Royalists.
The toads foul mouth, the snake's in venom'd bits,
Black spider, asp, or froth or rabid dog,
Is not so deadly as these murderers,
When men far off, in civilized states.
Shall know the perfidy and breach of faith,
The thought remorsless, and dire act of these,
In every language, they shall execrate,
The earth-disgracing name of Englishmen.
And at the Last Day, when the pit receives
Her gloomy brood, and seen among the rest,

Some spirit distinguished by ampler swell
Of malice, envy, and soul-griping hate,
Pointing to him, the foul and ugly Ghosts
Of Hell, shall say, “That was an Englishman.”

It may be thought by some grave people, that the speech put into the mouth of Gen. Carlston is inconsistent with his Excellency's character, who is in reality, as they believe, a mild and good natured gentleman.

I honestly confess I have not had the happiness of a very intimate acquaintance with his Excellency, either in England or America, and therefore cannot say, certainly, what be may be in his more sober hours, when the moon and the evil spirit of tyranny ceases to act upon him. In this, however, I am clear, that at least once or twice in his life, he has discovered in his language, some degree of venom and malignity. His speech, in this place, is little more than a love translation of his most famous proclamation, and his answer to the letter of the Congress addressed to him, concerning his treatment of the prisoners in Canada. We can easily remember the good-natured epithets bestowed upon us in those very extraordinary compositions. Rebels, traitors, planairers, murderers, parricides, lawless, faithless, perjured, base, ungrateful, bloody-minded men, were the smooth terms he made use of. The Congress, in his opinion, were a contemptible set of men, with whom no exchange of prisoners was to be made, from whom no flag was to be received. Nay every letter of theirs, or writing of any kind, was to be rejected with disdain, or burned by the hands of the common hangman.

Want of candour is very blameable, even in the account given of an enemy. For this reason I have been sometimes uneasy, least these words put into the mouth of General Carleton, should seem to give a colouring to his character, beyond the real complexion of his Excellency's conduct. But I find my conscience pretty much at cost in this matter, when I give my memory time to recollect the inhumanity of the officers and soldiers under his command to our prisoners, from the moment our affairs began to be on the decline in Canada. While the issue of the siege was yet doubtful, be affected to speak with great moderation, and, as some have told us, buried with the honours of war the corpse of Montgomery. As soon, however, as fortune began to shine folly out upon him, be grew warm in her rays, and like the viper in the summer, drew unusual poison from the more that usual heat, until his spirit in its every thought and purpose became virulent, and like the nature of a Devil, capable of feeding on the misery of mankind. I have conversed with those who saw the scalp; warm from the heads of our countrymen. I have had the relation from their mouth who beheld the fires lighted up, and heard, with a soul paining sympathy, the horrid shrieks and gloomy howlings of the Savage tribes in the execution of the poor captives, who according to the throat of Carleton, were burned on an island in the river St. Lawrence, after our unfortunate surrender at the Cedars.

THE END.

An ODE, in Honeur of the Pennsylvania Militia, and the small Band of Regular Continental Troops, who, under General WASHINGTON, sustained the Campaign in the Depth of Winter, January, 1777, and repulsed the British Forces from the Banks of the Delaware.

Now the foe had pierced far;
Ireful in vindictive mood:
Where the mighty Delaware,
Pours his full resounding flood.

All behind, a bleeding soil;
Every pleasant seat laid waste:
Where the soldier rov'd for spoil,
Or deflower'd the virgin chaste.

But, before, in prospect lies
Pennsylvania's happy State;
Where the blooming arts arise;
And the smiling Muses wait.

Satan, when from hell he came,
Saw the new-created earth,
And with hate's eternal flame,
View'd its origin and birth.

Thus the British chiefs, that pain
Feel which stings with keenest smart,
When black malice swells the vein,
Or pale envy checks the heart.

Hah! say they, “you rebel race,
Must recede from hill and plain;
And the soil shall yet embrace,
Many a youthful warrior slain.

Many an aged, hoary head,
Bate to clouded winter's sky,
Under night shall make his bed,
And beneath the cold winds lie.

Maids shall mingle bursting tears,
With the matron's heavy moan,
Whilst her infant's life she fears,
On the stormy mountain thrown.”

Savage and contemptuous foe,
God shall disappoint your hope;
Neither tears nor blood shall flow,
On the grizly mountain top.

For our sons, in noble rage,
O'er their native Delaware,
Hasten swiftly to engage,
And turn back the infernal war.

See, in noble strength of soul,
Philadelphia pours each band,
As the waves of ocean roll
In succession, to the land.

Sasquehanna's patriot-tide,
Sends her gallant marks-men forth;
Pouring from her rocky side,
Thousands of distinguish'd worth.

Fair Ohio, gladly stem'd
By the trading Indian swain;

Monongahela, ever fam'd
For the unhappy Braddock slain.

In compassion to the stream,
Of their sister Delaware,
Send the bounding youths that gleam,
Each in armour, like a star.

Gallant youths when you return,
From the field of holiest pray,
Annually, a garland worn,
Shall give honour to the day.

Wood land maids shall deck the scene
And your brows encircle still,
With a sprig of ever-green,
From your native laurel-hill.

Say, shall storms, that rudely play
On the Allegany head,
Give these warrior bands delay,
To the great atchievment led?

No, the Heaven-enkindled flame
Fires that in the bosom beat;
Thoughts of virtue, and of fame,
Lend the soul immortal heat,

All along the journey vast,
Bleak-wind hills oppose in vain;
For the bleak-wind hills are pass'd,
And the warriors rush amain.

See from Tuscarora's height,
Bending to the eastward on,
Thousand bayonets gild the night,
Or reflect the rising sun.

Now they meet the bounding flood;
Hear the British cannon roar:
View the Hessian marshal'd brood.
Trenton crowns the distant shore.

You have seen a mountain brow,
And the streams that tumble thence,
Mingling thro' the plain below,
In a happy confluence.

So the different reg'ments join,
Of militia from the State;
With the veteran bands combine,
And for shout of battle wait.

Hero's pierce the wint'ry wave;
Flush with valour every vein:
Give to Hessian chiefs a grave,
On fair Trenton's bow'ry plain.

Fifteen hundred of this race,
Slain in fight, or captive made,
Doth the warrior band embrace,
With encircling ambuscade.

But the mighty Colonel Rohl,
Feels a rein-pervading wound;
And his sullen angry soul,
In departing bites the ground.

When the news, in New-York town,
Sounded in the ears of Howe,
Wrath gave wrinkles to his frown,
And he made the infernal vow.

“Death shall mangle every joint—
Spoil the virgin—Stab the male—
Dart the bayonet's gleaming point—
Ruin, havock shall prevail.”

See, from Brunswick, widely spread
Crimson standards flush the air.
Squadrons by Corn wallis led,
Swift to Delaware banks repair.

“Full revenge is mine to day,
Then the bloody warrior said;
And our loss shall these repay:
Rouse the sleeping cannonade.

Grenadier-brigades of Hesse,
Scale the bridged flood between.
In the war's impetuous chase,
Let your troops be foremost seen.

Wipe the foul disgrace away,
Of your brethren captive made—
Shew your German rage to day,
And o'er heaps of warriors tread.”

Not so swift, presuming chief;
'Ere thou leav'st that wood-crown'd plain,
Many a mother shall have grief,
Of her son in battle slain.

“Come, brave souls, sustain the shock,
Musslin, gallant Misslin said;
Firm as is the sea-beat rock,
In the surging ocean's bed.

Rifle-men, attack that flank,—
Pour your bushy ambuscade—
See from many a shatter'd rank,
Britons on the field lie dead.”

For an equal war was wag'd,
To the smoak-stain'd setting sun;
And the strength of battle rag'd,
When the clouds of night came on.

Now avails the warriors skill;
Stratagems attend the night;
When pale darkness crowns the hill,
And but stars diffuse their light.

What confusion wildly roll'd
In each eye? what looks were seen;
When the early morning told,
Of our troops on Princeton green?

Now they tremble for their stores,
And their veteran reg'ments there.
Disappointment, on them, pours

Her full urn of deep despair.

Soon approacheth what they fear'd;
Now the contest is begun;
And the sound of battle heard,
Resalutes the rising sun.

See the soil is drench'd in blood.
Many a hero gasping lies.
Shouts of men, artillery loud,
Rend the widely bending skies.

Drench'd in blood, is Princeton's plain,
Where the muse that breathes the lay,
Free from care and anxious pain,
Sported many a summer's day.

Ah! how little thought she then,
That her lyre should yet be strung,
From the tale of love's soft pain,
To the deeds of warriors sung.

Deeds of war, of which the green,
On whose shaven brow she stray'd,
Is itself the hapless scene,
And the gasping soldiers bed.

Bravely yet the day is fought.
Victory hangs in even scale.
Ah! sweet Heaven! Ah! why that shot,
By which noble Mercer fell?

Ah! ye Britons inhumane;
Why re-wound the bleeding chief?
Cruel actions fix a stain,
On what valour doth atchieve.

See the immortal Haselet borne
From the verge of burning war:
He hath left a spouse to mourn,
By the banks of Delaware.

For a ball hath pierc'd his head;
And with him, brave Flemming dy'd,

Who a band of heroes led,
O'er Potomaque's distant tide.

And, O savage, cruel hate,
Which fell Britons exercise!
Butchered by the bayonet,
Yeates, the brave Virginian, lies.

But aloft, I see the scale
Of Britannia kick the beam;
And the shouts of joy prevail,
Where the patriot bayonets gleam.

In the gallant strife of death,
See in stable Column move;
Fair New-England's sons that breath
Noble fire and patriot love.

To the right, these ranks unfold,
And firm proof of valour shew,
While the Philadelphians bold,
Pierce the center of the foe.

Sons of valour, sons of ease,
Who on pleasure's lap were laid;
Skill'd in arts that gently please;
Soft and elegantly bred.

Yet no depth of winter's snows,
Could the march of these repress,
Braving every storm that blows,
With a veteran hardiness.

Such the power of virtuous thought,
Kindling fame through every age;
See them pour their steady shot,
With a more than lyon rage.

See the British troops give way;
To superior worth they yield;
While the spirit of dismay,
Drives in carnage o'er the field.

Now we tread the hostile soil,

Whence their cannot briskly play'd;
As we pass, survey the spoil
Which our surer thunder made.

Here the bold Hibernian dies;
Many an English youth is seen;
And the Caledonian lies,
On the blood-empurpled green.

Leslie, gallant Leslie lies,
On the sad and mortal plain,
And our thoughts in sorrow rise,
For so brave a warrior flash.

Though an enemy, yet woe
For his virtues bids each eye,
In soft screams of sorrow flow;
Pity is philanthropy.

Likewise here Macpherson lies;
Of his wound forgets the pain;
All his gushing griefs arise,
For the much-lov'd Leslie slain.

Campbell wounded bleeds with him,
Yet not tastes mortality.
Though the shades of midnight dim,
Seem to hover o'er his eye.

For the swift pursuit is o'er
And soft mercy heals the wound
Of the fainting, that implore
Mercy, on the ensanguin'd ground.

See the victor warriors drawn,
In array of arms that blaze;
While the south-west bending laws,
All along reflects the rays.

Who is he that guides their might,
Gives to each brigade its place;
And, amidst battalions bright,
Steps with majesty and grace?

Mild his eye—his look serene—
Placid as the ev'ning sun;
Stately in his shape and mien—
'Tis the noble Washington.

Hail renown'd immortal chief!
“Conquest on thy banners wait.”
Bid the brooding shades of grief,
Fly from every happy state.

Fabius like, thy skill shall dwell
Glorious, in immortal fame;
And thy praise run parallel
Ever, with great Scipio's name.

Whom resembling, may thy age
See the pride of battle cease,
When the wars that fiercely rage.
Leave thy country bless'd with peace.

University of Virginia Library

PROLOGUE TO THE DEATH OF GENERAL MONTGOMERY.

DRAMATIS PERSONÆ.

ACT I.

SCENE I.

SCENE II.

SCENE III.

ACT II.

SCENE I.

SCENE II.

ACT III.

SCENE I.

SCENE II.

SCENE III.

ACT IV.

SCENE I.

SCENE II.

ACT. V.

SCENE I.

SCENE II.

SCENE III.

SCENE IV.

SCENE V.

An ODE, in Honeur of the Pennsylvania Militia, and the small Band of Regular Continental Troops, who, under General WASHINGTON, sustained the Campaign in the Depth of Winter, January, 1777, and repulsed the British Forces from the Banks of the Delaware.