 | [The conquest of Canada, or, the siege of Quebec] |  |
SCENE V.
Wolfe, at the head of the troops; a march beating; and opposite, as from Montcalm's camp, enter an English Officer, addressing himself to Wolfe.Sir, I come from reconnoitring Montcalm's
Camp, where with all the haste they're masters of,
They're arming, evacuating the trenches,
And forming on the plain; they seem inclin'd
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Entrenchments, and in a few minutes we may
Expect them here.
[Wolfe, turning to the soldiers.
Now the completion of your wishes is
At hand! you no more shall pant for war, and
With impatience glow, chiding the tardy
Hours which roll'd inactively away,
Nor shall you ask indignantly again,
When shall we meet and rush upon our foes?
And battle with them, bay'net to bay'net,
Sword to sword, front to front, and man to man?
[They all shout, and several call out,
Lead us on to glorious death, or victory!
To glorious death, or victory! lead us on!
An Officer advances from the rear.
Wolfe.
Is the artillery well advanc'd?
Officer.
They have already gain'd the rear,
And 'twixt the flanks of diff'rent corps, they are
Advancing to the front with intrepid
Haste, and ready to eject their mingled
Storm of lead and iron, to deform the
Hostile ranks of war.
Wolfe.
When they have gain'd the front, (pregnant with fate)
Let our fulminating engines bellow
Britannia's salutation to the French;
'Midst which we will advance, careering in
The thunder storm.
Are all the corps dispos'd of as I order'd?
Officer.
Col'nel Howe, and his light infantry, are
Drawn in a semicircle round our rear, and
Left flank, and form an offensive moving
Bulwark against th' incursions of such foes,
As may be lurking in the adjacent coppice,
Where doubtless all their Indians skulk:
Ev'ry other officer, and corps, fill their
Stations in the field.
Wolfe.
Then we are ready for the onset:
Good Providence! befriend us.
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Whilst traversing the field, from rank to rank,
I found a sympathetic resolution
Spread from man to man; each leader glowing
With an indignant noble emulation
For glory, (with sparkling eyes, brimful of
Fierce delight, and steady countenance) strove
To animate his corps, who stood alert:
And when the drums began to beat, join'd with
The shrill fifes, when the brisk clangors of the
Trumpets echo'd thro' the ranks, and the deep
Throated cannons roar'd a dread prelude to
The battle, their gen'rous souls dilated
With a warlike pride! then (like Job's war-horse)
They bid adieu to fear, and with genuine
Freeborn ardor, eager for close action,
Join'd in loud concert with the martial grand
Enliv'ning melody; sending forth their
Wonted cheering shouts of exultation!
Wolfe
[turning to the soldiers.]
In view, before us lies the plenteous field
Of martial glory, in which this day we
Are to reap, with honourable toil, a
Matchless harvest of renown: Now is the
Time to serve our country well, to spread the
Terror of our Sov'reign's name, and with a
Freeborn flame rush into battle.
Let glory warm our emulating hearts,
Like men in Britain's cause, to play our parts:
'Gainst Montcalm now, let us defiance roar,
And fate's untrodden path resolv'd explore:
And when the dreadful conflict is begun,
Let each remember he's a Briton's son;
Each recollect Great Britain's wholesome laws,
Let each reflect he fights in freedom's cause;
Then glowing with the thoughts, we'll charge our foes;
Lighten like Jove, and deal our riving blows.
[Scene closes, drums beat a short march on both sides, then a point of war; a discharge of artillery and small arms, a shout of battle, and Indians yelling: Scene draws and discovers General Wolfe wounded in the wrist; an Officer attending.]
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You bleed, Sir.
Wolfe.
The ball graz'd my wrist.
Officer.
Shall a Surgeon be call'd to dress the wound, Sir?
Wolfe.
Call no Surgeon for a wound so slight as this.
[Taking out his handkerchief, and wrapping it round his wrist]
We waste the precious moments! whilst all are
Upon the wing to honour! See, where the
Anstruthers and Caledonians, with a
Mutual emulation, hew thro' the thick
Obstructing ranks of Frenchmen; and as they
Lift their burnish'd steel, they fling a transient
Gleam of terror round!
And see, where every other corps with
Bayonets fix'd, to close engagement throngs!
Let us my friend among 'em speed, and in
Their front rush foremost to their goal of glory!
[Exeunt, in haste.
[A shout of battle, Indians yelling.]
Scene draws. Levi and a French Officer in disorder.
Levi.
The battle will be irretrievably
Lost, without a sudden turn!
Gen'ral Montcalm, and others are wounded!
The wings give way! the main body is broke!
Officer.
The Indians faintly squall their horrid yell
Of onset! and in their thick abushment
Riveted agape, they gazing stand as
Thunderstruck!
Levi.
Heav'ns! that such a handful of men should work
So much confusion!
Run!
Rally the broken troops, and make them stand;
Whilst I head and spirit up the main corps,
'Till Bougainville's reinforcement arrives.
[Exeunt severally, in haste.
[Montcalm brought in by two, his thighs wrapp'd and bloody.]
Montcalm.
Each Englishman this day behaves,
He wore Medusa's head! with Gorgon frowns
They look some Frenchmen pale and stiff with horror!
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With a Mercurial speed!
1st Soldier.
Where'er they face, our troops retreat;
Or else they pierce and hew a lane of carnage out.
2d Soldier.
Our army dares as far as men can do:
But who can stand the charge of these
Impetuous Britons!
The day is theirs! Quebec must fall!
Montcalm.
And Canada is lost!—Alas my country!
As the roaring thunder, on the rapid
Wings of keen light'ning, bursts resistless thro'
The sturdy oaken grove, scorches, and rives,
And lays its stubborn honours low, so the
Furious Britons break thro' our thickest ranks!
And as a cold blight nips tender blossoms,
The fierce Wolfe blasts all the former honours
Of my life! he tears with greedy hand the
Fading laurels from my head! and rises
Into glory, whilst in disgrace I set!
Bear me into Quebec.
[Exeunt.
[Montcalm, as they go off.
Canada shakes!—my country bleeds!—my honour's lost!—
[Groans, oh—
Enter Leonatus, supported by two soldiers, his hand to his lungs.
Leonatus.
Ill fated bullet!—
In its rapid flight, I fear it pierc'd my
Lungs, and threatens painful dissolution.
If we gain the vict'ry, welcome death: my
Wound would plead with sanguin'd eloquence for fame.
[Looking back, as he looks back, a shout.
I must quit the field!
For tho' my spirit is resolv'd, yet the
Poignant torments, and expence of blood, roll
Cooling tremors to my heart, and weigh frail
Nature down.
Soldier.
Sir, as we pass'd the rear with you, I think
I saw General Wolfe bearing off this
Way, between four.
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Cease the unwelcome tale!
That news pierc'd thro' my soul and from the near
Exhausted fountain of my heart, roll'd a
Fresh purple stream of life!—yet still I'll hope.
[Going off, and looking back.
Oh! Townshend!
What an harvest of immortal glory,
Wilt thou reap this day!
[Exeunt.
[As they go off, enter four soldiers, bearing General Wolfe; an Officer attending.]
Wolfe.
Here let me rest awhile:—
My wounds grow painful.—
[Speaking to the Officer.
Pray tell me, Sir, how goes the battle?
For hearing is the chiefest sense I've left:
A chilly damp of gloom hangs o'er my sight,
And seems to wrap me in a waking dream.
Officer.
Firm as a rock amidst the billows plac'd,
Our little army stands the furious charge
Of their ten thousand vet'ran troops!
And at an awful trembling distance held,
The savage yelling bands, (with horror struck)
Howl out their rage against the gallant Howe,
And his small corps of infantry, yet dare
Not come within the fascination of
Their eyes, nor meet the piercing terrors of their frowns!
Wolfe.
Discern you this for certain?
Mock me not I beg with vain delusive
Hopes in my last moments.—
[Officer, clapping his hand to his breast.
Upon my honour, Sir, I discern it well.
Wolfe.
Now fate retard thy speed!
Oh death inexorable! stop! stop thy dart!
Already-levell'd at my breast! that my
Glad soul may take its flight, amidst the shouts
Of my victorious countrymen!
[Groans.
Officer.
Now front to front they close and man to man
They stand, and urge the steely arguments
Against each others breasts! Pikes, bayonets,
And halberts meet and clash together!
Others with batt'ring firelock's clubb'd, engage,
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All around the glitt'ring deaths, in show'rs of
Steel descend!
Wolfe.
Ill lay me back, and rest awhile,
Perhaps this cooling tremor may wear off.
[Lays back against a soldier, (sitting for that purpose) as he falls back groans, and lies as dead.
Officer.
The Gallic standard backward seems to move!
And in a disarray their colours seem!
Near their pale flags our blood red ensigns wave!
And in conjunction mortal, spread the plain!
They still recede! and ours as swift advance!
Our wings and main corps boldly cross their lines!
They've beaten down the oriflamme of France!
And now they trample it in Gallic gore!
And like a rapid inundation, they
Mix promiscuous with the hostile ranks,
Repelling the impetuous torrent of
The foes, gorging voracious death with whole
Platoons!—
Surely towards Quebec our forces rush!
And all their vet'ran thousands swift retreat!
Oh now they scatter!—now they flee full speed!—
Victory!—Victory!—by heav'ns they run!
[A shout of victory, and Indians yelling.
[Wolfe raising himself in haste.]
Who runs?—That sound recall'd me into life!—
Surely my fearless Britons do not run!—
Now I'm well!—bear me into the battle!—
Amidst the greatest rout there set me down!
My soldiers will not leave me!
The glorious tumult of the war, has charms
To stay my flitting soul some short moments!
And the bright implements of death shall give
New day to my benighted eyes, and light
Me where to snatch at victory with my dying grasp!
Officer.
Your fears are needless, Sir:
For in a total rout the foe is fled:
Your soldiers chace them headlong to their walls!
They kill! run down! and take at pleasure! and
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Wolfe.
My glory's race is run!—my country's serv'd!
Quebec is conquer'd!—Great George is victor!—
I wish no more; and am completely satisfy'd.
[Dies.
Scene changes to London. Sophronia's House:
Enter Sophronia, and a Gentleman.
Gentleman.
Madam there's a report in town, Quebec
Is taken.
Sophronia.
How comes the news?
I might expect to have heard as soon as
Any; Heav'n grant all is well.—
Gent.
I hear there is an express arriv'd to
His Majesty.
Soph.
An express arriv'd! [sighing]
and is it possible
My son can have forgotten me!—my heart
Forebodes all is not well with him— [sighing]
know you
The particulars? [flutter'd]
Gent.
Madam, I could not obtain a knowledge
Of them.
Soph.
That was unkind indeed not to enquire;
The friendship that has long time subsisted
Between you, and all the fond endearments
Of your youth together, methinks shou'd have
Prompted you to gain a recital from
The messenger, of all concern'd my son.
I shou'd have had a thousand fond queries,
And dwelt with rapture on his bravery,
List'ning with delight to the melodious
Tale of honour.
Gent.
Too much I know.
(Aside.
To her.
I have enquir'd, but cou'd not get the whole
Intelligence.
[Sophronia aside.
His solemn looks, like to black gath'ring clouds
Preceding a thunder storm, seem to me
The dismal harbingers, to warn me of
Th' approaching storm of grief!
To him.
Learnt you any thing, Sir! [eagerly.]
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Gent.
I learnt your son gave the Frenchmen battle
Before Quebec, in which he sev'ral wounds
Receiv'd, but still rush'd fearless onward to
The goal of glory, heaping new honours
Upon those already gain'd, and at length
Obtain'd the hard disputed victory:
The dubious conflict ended, Quebec fell
To the conquerors.
Soph.
Alas! there's more to follow;—and I fear
This great encomium on his valour,
Is like an opiate that's giv'n to a
Patient, to lull him to repose; but when
The dormiant draught is evaporated,
And the gentle slumber wears away, he
Awakes in torments exquisite again.
Forgetting the short respite of his woe.
Wounded you said!—and slain I fear— [weeping]
cou'd he
Not write to me?
Gent.
His wrist was broken, Madam.
Soph.
He had a tongue!— [sighing.]
His secretary then
Could write.—
[Aside.
He makes such vain evasions, surely my
Son is lost— [weeping.]
To him.
Will you go in and stay dinner with us?
Let me know the worst, I beg Sir,—for this
Anxiety is insufferable!—
[Exeunt.
Sophia sola, in Sophronia's Parlour.
Enter to her a servant.
Madam, my mistress will wait on you immediately.
[Exit.
Sophia
sola.
A gloom hangs on the countenance of all
I meet here, and with a fatal presage
Fills my soul—Be still my heart,—nor pine at
The decrees of fate: Now summon all thy
Resolution, to bear th' unwelcome tale,
From whence to date the æra of thy grief.
Enter Sophronia.
Sophia.
Madam I took the liberty to wait
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To wish you joy of your good news from Quebec.
Soph.
I'm oblig'd t'ye Madam, for this friendly
Visit,—but have no room to hope for joy.
[Sophia, aside]
Has she no room to hope for joy!—then what
Have I to fear! [sighing]
To her.
Pray, Madam, what intelligence arriv'd?
Sophia.
I have not seen the Gentleman who brought
Th' express, nor receiv'd a letter, but I
Have great reason to guess by what I've heard,
Cou'd the lofty sounding name of honour
Give a mournful parent any joy, from
The gallant exploits of my son, perhaps
I might some pleasure feel, and boast he fell
A British Patriot.
Sophia.
Is he then slain!—Ah me!—
And was my happiness so fleeting!
Soph.
If your happiness, Madam, is center'd
In my son, fleeting it may be; for I
Fear he is no more. [weeps]
Sophia.
Then farewel all the goodly treasure of
Felicity, which my fond soul had in
Expectation hoarded up.—Oh how oft
In fancy had I been clasp'd within my
Hero's arms! and dwelt with vast pleasure on
His tales of danger; whilst my list'ning ears
Methought, were sweetly ravish'd with the loud
Exulting shouts of his glad countrymen,
And friends, to welcome him victorious to
His native shore!—But now a sad reverse
Of fortune threatens me— [weeps.]
Enter a Gentleman, addressing Sophronia.
Madam, here's a Gentleman Officer
Without, from Quebec, desires to speak with you.
Soph.
Be pleas'd, Sir, to introduce him.
[Exit Gent.
A palpitation seizes on my heart!
A cold tremor runs thro' ev'ry vein; the
Direful agitation both of soul and
Body, borders on a fond delirium.
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Unspeakable, careful tim'rous mothers
Feel for their dear offspring! Children of their
Youth; and sweet pledges of connubial love!
Enter Officer and the Gentleman.
Officer
to Sophronia, [bowing and looking serious]
Madam, I am from Quebec.
Soph.
So I learn, Sir,—Is all well there? [eagerly]
Officer.
[aside]
She must know it.
To her.
Madam, your son is conq'ror; he has gain'd
Universal love, esteem, and never
Dying fame!
Sophia.
[aside]
That welcome sound wou'd almost lift my soul
To heav'n, did not his gloomy countenance
Fill it with dubious fears and clog its flight.
Soph.
But does he live?—Shall I again in these
Fond arms infold the staff of my age; and
To my bosom press the darling of my
Soul; bedew his manly cheeks with tears of
Joy; and listen with a parent's pleasure,
Whilst he recounts his wounds, his dangers and
His battles?—But oh! I fear such joy is
Not in store for me— [weeps.]
Sophia.
[aside, weeping]
My sad soul can sympathize with her's in
Silent sorrow.
Gent.
I've this to add, before the battle clos'd,
Your son was wounded in the breast, and
Carried from the line.
Soph.
[weeping]
Too true my fears are come to past: Go on,
Sir; for I'm prepar'd to hear the worst.
Sophia.
[aside, weeping.]
My throbbing heart anticipates his tale.
Officer.
The wound he then receiv'd was dangerous.
And your son is—
Soph.
[hastily]
Oh, say not he is dead!—
Officer.
Madam, he is,—and nations mourn his fall.
[Sophronia faints, and falls into the arms of the Gentleman, who sets her in a chair, placed there for that
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Gent.
Who waits there!
[Enter a woman servant to assist.
Soph.
[recovering after a short time.]
Cruel generosity!
Oh! Why by your officious care have you
Awaken'd me from the sweet delusion?
My soul was on the wing into the world
Of spirits blest, to meet and hold in an
Eternal clasp, his much lov'd filial shade.
Sophia.
The ball which took his life, consign'd my [illeg.]
To woe.
Officer
to Sophia.
To say you shou'd not grieve for such a loss,
Wou'd be to change all nature's order.
To Sophronia.
Not to sympathize with you, Madam, wou'd
Indicate a most unfeeling soul:—Your
Son was all a fond mother cou'd desire,
Or a tender virgin wish:—Yet in the
Dying victor's fall, there's consolation.
Beyond the common rank of men his name
Shall live, and in Britannia's patriot
List, shall shine with a superior blaze: He
Nobly dy'd!—And as he for his country
Fell, he left you full of honourable
Grief, array'd with solemn dignity of
Glorious woe.
[Turning to the audience.]
Shou'd France again Europe in broils engage,
And dare to rouze the dormant lion's rage;
Methinks I see your souls around me glow
With flame indignant, 'gainst th' insidious foe!
Like sons of freedom to maintain your cause,
Nobly to save wives, children, lands and laws,
To glory's goal what Briton wou'd not fly!
To fall like Wolfe, who wou'd not wish to die!
Who wou'd not fight the treaty-breaking Gaul!
When George, and liberty, and martial honour call!.
| [The conquest of Canada, or, the siege of Quebec] | |