University of Virginia Library

ACT V.

SCENE I.

The Bay Shore.
The British army now repuls'd, Howe again rallies his flying troops, who had been flying in every direction.
Howe.
But that so many mouths, can witness it,
I would deny myself in Englishman,
And swear this day, that with such cowardice,
No kindred, or alliance, has my birth.
Oh base degen'rate souls, whose ancestors,
At Cressy, Poictiers, and a' Agincourt,
With tenfold numbers, combated, and pluck'd
The budding laurels, from the brows of France.
Back to the charge, once more, and rather die,
Burn'd up, and wither'd on this bloody hill,
Than live the blemish, of your Country's same,
With everlasting, infamy oppress'd.
Their ammunition, as you hear, is spent,
So that unless, their looks, and visages,
Like firce-ey'd Basiliks, can strike you dead;
Return, and rescue yet, my Countrymen,
Some share of honour, on this hapless day.
Let some brave officers, stand on the rear,
And with the small sword, and sharp bayonet,
Drive on each coward that attempts to lag,
That thus, sure death may find the villain out,
With more dread certainty, than him who moves,
Full in the van, to meet the wrathful foe.

SCENE II.

Gardner desperately wounded and borne from the field by two Soldiers.
Gardiner.
A musket-ball death wing'd, hath pierc'd my groin,
And widely op'd the swift curr'nt of my veins.
Bear me then Soldiers, to that hollow space,
A little hence, just in the hill's decline.
A surgeon there, may stop the gushing wound,
And gain a short respite to life, that yet,
I may return, and fight one half hour more.

SCENE III.

Putnam,
to the American Army.
Swift-rising fame, on early wing, mounts up,
To the convexity of bending Heaven,
And writes each name, who fought with us this day,
In fairest character, amidst the stars.
The world shall read it, and still talk of us,
Who far out-number'd twice drove back the foe,
With carnage horrid, murm'ring to their ships.
The Ghost of Warren says, enough—I see
One thousand veterans, mingled with the dust.
Now, for our sacred honour, and the wound,
Which Gard'ner feels, once more we charge once more
Dear friends, and fence the obscur'd hill,
With hecatombs of slain. Let every piece,
Flash, like the fierce-consuming fire of Heaven,
And make the smoke, in which they wrap themselves.
“A darkness visible.”—Now, once again,
Receive the battle, as a shore of rock
The ocean wave. And if at last we yield,
Leave many a death, amidst their hollow ranks,
To damp the measure, of their dear-bought joy.

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,
When from the ships, and batt'ries on the wave,
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,
Majors, and Col'nels, which are this day slain,
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.