The Wiccamical Chaplet a selection of original poetry; comprising smaller poems, serious and comic; classical trifles; sonnets; inscriptions and epitaphs; songs and ballads; mock-heroics, epigrams, fragments, &c. &c. Edited by George Huddesford |
 |
|
|
|
|
| I. |
| II. |
| III. |
| IV. |
| V. |
| VI. |
| VII. |
| VIII. |
| IX. |
| X. |
| XI. |
| XII. |
| XIII. |
| XIV. |
| XV. |
| XVI. |
| XVII. |
| XVIII. |
|
|
|
THE CONQUEST OF QUEBEC,
|
|
 | The Wiccamical Chaplet |  |
147
THE CONQUEST OF QUEBEC,
A MOCK-HEROIC.
Cedit Homero
Propter mille annos.
Propter mille annos.
Juv.
O Muse, the Conquest of Canadia tell—
Where General Wolfe and General Montcalm fell!
O tell how many gallant warriors died—
In climbing up that rugged mountain's side,
Ere they their post on Abraham's heights could gain!
And tell—how many of the French were slain!
The French on top resistance had prepar'd,
And block'd the passage with—a Captain's Guard:
Undauntedly the English forc'd the trench,
Undauntedly—and slow retir'd the French:
So Victors on the mountain's top we stood,
We bought our passage, and the price was Blood.
Where General Wolfe and General Montcalm fell!
O tell how many gallant warriors died—
In climbing up that rugged mountain's side,
Ere they their post on Abraham's heights could gain!
And tell—how many of the French were slain!
The French on top resistance had prepar'd,
And block'd the passage with—a Captain's Guard:
Undauntedly the English forc'd the trench,
Undauntedly—and slow retir'd the French:
So Victors on the mountain's top we stood,
We bought our passage, and the price was Blood.
There to the silent moon the British hosts
Pale gleam'd, and dreadful as the midnight ghosts:
Then form'd the General his van and rear—
Here the dragoon, and there the grenadier—
Told them how Johnson, and how Amherst, fought,
And gave each man a quartern of gin hot.
One single cannon in the front they bore,
One;—for the British army had no more:
Thus were the regiments rank'd in firm array,
And stood in order by the break of day.
Pale gleam'd, and dreadful as the midnight ghosts:
Then form'd the General his van and rear—
Here the dragoon, and there the grenadier—
Told them how Johnson, and how Amherst, fought,
And gave each man a quartern of gin hot.
148
One;—for the British army had no more:
Thus were the regiments rank'd in firm array,
And stood in order by the break of day.
Dark to the view a distant thicket rose,
Under the gloomy covert of whose boughs
Some ambuscade our prudent Leader fear'd,
Perhaps an Indian chief—or Indian bird;
Each bush, each leafy brake, he boldly swore,
His Aid-du-camp should carefully explore.
When lo! the standards of the French appear,
Streaming like meteors to the troubled air:
Regiments on regiment to the plain they bring,
Aloof grim Horror beats his iron wing.
Under the gloomy covert of whose boughs
Some ambuscade our prudent Leader fear'd,
Perhaps an Indian chief—or Indian bird;
Each bush, each leafy brake, he boldly swore,
His Aid-du-camp should carefully explore.
When lo! the standards of the French appear,
Streaming like meteors to the troubled air:
Regiments on regiment to the plain they bring,
Aloof grim Horror beats his iron wing.
Last, from a delve in flank, two Chiefs advance;
Potent allies of the Monarque of France:
One Atacullaculla, fam'd in war,
By Britons nam'd, the Little Carpenter;
T'other, of giant port and tawny hue,
Was call'd the Raven King of Toogaloo;
On his rough brow Deliberation sate,
And each slow word he spake seem'd fix'd as Fate .
Potent allies of the Monarque of France:
One Atacullaculla, fam'd in war,
By Britons nam'd, the Little Carpenter;
T'other, of giant port and tawny hue,
Was call'd the Raven King of Toogaloo;
On his rough brow Deliberation sate,
And each slow word he spake seem'd fix'd as Fate .
“Stern warrior, Atacullaculla brave,
Whose sword can conquer, and whose arm can save,
Say, 'mid the battle's fury shall we rush—
Or sit conceal'd behind this shady bush?
Here we might fight, secure of dire alarms,
Why should we run then into Danger's arms?
Yet think not, mighty chief, I mean to fly,
I laugh at danger—for I can but die;—
But never be that brutal bravery mine
To offer Prudence up at Valour's shrine;
Full well I know my country claims my life;—
So do my little children and my wife.”
Whose sword can conquer, and whose arm can save,
149
Or sit conceal'd behind this shady bush?
Here we might fight, secure of dire alarms,
Why should we run then into Danger's arms?
Yet think not, mighty chief, I mean to fly,
I laugh at danger—for I can but die;—
But never be that brutal bravery mine
To offer Prudence up at Valour's shrine;
Full well I know my country claims my life;—
So do my little children and my wife.”
The Chief no longer could his wrath resist,
But clench'd the brawny terrors of his fist:
“Degen'rate Prince,” he cried, “speak thus again
This arm shall stretch thee breathless on the plain.
Tempt me not, coward, in my strength to rise,
Nought will avail thee thy disdainful eyes,
Thy limbs in thunder cloth'd and more than mortal size.
Ye Gods! how idle doth appear your art,
So huge a case for such a little heart!
Why doth the oker stain thy bosom red,
Why nods the sable plumage o'er thy head?
Why, 'midst thy bold companions, dost thou boast
With loudest yell to animate the host?
Why do the hoary scalps adorn thy wall,
Frequent as fox-heads round the hunter's hall?
If thou dost tremble to behold the foe,
To send the poison'd arrow from the bow,
With red right-hand the tomahawk to wield,
To scalp the warriors gasping in the field?
Go, formidable giant, rouse thy might
To rage in forests, and with beasts to fight;
Go try thy prowess on the fearful hare;
Thou durst not combat in the walks of war.
Fly, prudent coward, save that worthless life,
Fly to thy little children and thy wife;
That wife shall groan beneath her husband's shame,
Those children blush to hear their father's name.”
But clench'd the brawny terrors of his fist:
“Degen'rate Prince,” he cried, “speak thus again
This arm shall stretch thee breathless on the plain.
Tempt me not, coward, in my strength to rise,
Nought will avail thee thy disdainful eyes,
Thy limbs in thunder cloth'd and more than mortal size.
Ye Gods! how idle doth appear your art,
So huge a case for such a little heart!
Why doth the oker stain thy bosom red,
Why nods the sable plumage o'er thy head?
Why, 'midst thy bold companions, dost thou boast
With loudest yell to animate the host?
Why do the hoary scalps adorn thy wall,
Frequent as fox-heads round the hunter's hall?
If thou dost tremble to behold the foe,
To send the poison'd arrow from the bow,
With red right-hand the tomahawk to wield,
To scalp the warriors gasping in the field?
150
To rage in forests, and with beasts to fight;
Go try thy prowess on the fearful hare;
Thou durst not combat in the walks of war.
Fly, prudent coward, save that worthless life,
Fly to thy little children and thy wife;
That wife shall groan beneath her husband's shame,
Those children blush to hear their father's name.”
“Imperious Chief,” the Raven King replied,
“I scorn thy menace as I hate thy pride.
'Tis not thine arm, with nervous valour strung,
No, nor the thunder of thy braver tongue,
Can shake the firm resolve that I pursue;
Here will I stand and fight—and so shall you.
Yet, Atacullaculla, wisely hear
The voice of Reason whisper in thine ear.
Say, should the fury of the whistling lead
From thy broad shoulders strike thy painted head,
What would it boot thee that, with ceaseless yell,
Thy friends shall howl around thy narrow cell;
Shall idly lay the wampum by thy side,
And ask, in solemn sadness, “Why you died?”
Is Fame thy passion? Fame is idle breath;—
For who can hear the praises of his death?
Say, if thou knowest, on what dreary coast
Shall stalk thy silent, melancholy ghost?
Thou dost not fondly trust what priests recount
Of a new world behind yon cloud-topt mount,
Where our forefathers still their sports pursue,
Urge the swift chace and guide the light canoe!
Nature and Reason cry, they judge amiss;
Yon mountain's other side must be like this.”
“I scorn thy menace as I hate thy pride.
'Tis not thine arm, with nervous valour strung,
No, nor the thunder of thy braver tongue,
Can shake the firm resolve that I pursue;
Here will I stand and fight—and so shall you.
Yet, Atacullaculla, wisely hear
The voice of Reason whisper in thine ear.
Say, should the fury of the whistling lead
From thy broad shoulders strike thy painted head,
What would it boot thee that, with ceaseless yell,
Thy friends shall howl around thy narrow cell;
Shall idly lay the wampum by thy side,
And ask, in solemn sadness, “Why you died?”
Is Fame thy passion? Fame is idle breath;—
For who can hear the praises of his death?
Say, if thou knowest, on what dreary coast
Shall stalk thy silent, melancholy ghost?
Thou dost not fondly trust what priests recount
Of a new world behind yon cloud-topt mount,
151
Urge the swift chace and guide the light canoe!
Nature and Reason cry, they judge amiss;
Yon mountain's other side must be like this.”
He scarce had ended parley, when on high
A musquet bullet sung along the sky;
O'er Atacullaculla's head it flew,
And smote the Raven King of Toogaloo;
Deep in his forehead sunk the fatal ball:
See the dire chance of being made too tall!
The giant prone, o'er fourscore inches spread,
Fell, and lay number'd with the mighty dead:
His fate unmov'd his bold compeer beheld,
Rush'd dreadful to the fight, and loudly yell'd.
A musquet bullet sung along the sky;
O'er Atacullaculla's head it flew,
And smote the Raven King of Toogaloo;
Deep in his forehead sunk the fatal ball:
See the dire chance of being made too tall!
The giant prone, o'er fourscore inches spread,
Fell, and lay number'd with the mighty dead:
His fate unmov'd his bold compeer beheld,
Rush'd dreadful to the fight, and loudly yell'd.
Then, then began a direful bloody battle,
Swords clash, drums beat, men shout, and cannons rattle.
To arms! to arms! see where the enemy sits!
Advance, present, fire; fix your bayonets!
How soon is quench'd the sun's immortal light!
Each army stands conceal'd from t'other's sight.
In sulphury clouds of all-involving smoke,
And darkness is around them as a cloke.
Behold, the murderous Fiends of Hell rejoice
At the dread thunder of the cannon's voice!
The trumpet's clang, the soldiers' piercing cries,
Rock the firm earth, and rend the echoing skies.
Charge! charge! the broken Gallic squadrons run,
Nor dare to face the sulphur-belching gun:
They fly, they fly, in wild disorder fly—
Huzza! the day's our own! St. George and Victory!
Swords clash, drums beat, men shout, and cannons rattle.
To arms! to arms! see where the enemy sits!
Advance, present, fire; fix your bayonets!
How soon is quench'd the sun's immortal light!
Each army stands conceal'd from t'other's sight.
In sulphury clouds of all-involving smoke,
And darkness is around them as a cloke.
Behold, the murderous Fiends of Hell rejoice
At the dread thunder of the cannon's voice!
The trumpet's clang, the soldiers' piercing cries,
Rock the firm earth, and rend the echoing skies.
Charge! charge! the broken Gallic squadrons run,
Nor dare to face the sulphur-belching gun:
152
Huzza! the day's our own! St. George and Victory!
But, e'er I rein the Muse's furious force,
Soft let her weep o'er Wolfe's still bleeding corse,
In manhood's prime, alas! the Hero falls:
Who could withstand three whizzing musquet balls?
Where were ye, Nymphs, when the remorseless lead
Pierc'd his brave breast—and made your Hero bleed?
He long had boasted your peculiar care;
But ye were daunted at the din of war,
And trembling fled beneath your oozy caves,
Beneath old Lawrence' flood, and Montmorenci's waves!
For Thee the hardy Veteran wept, for Thee
Check'd the strong course of Joy for Victory.
Soft let her weep o'er Wolfe's still bleeding corse,
In manhood's prime, alas! the Hero falls:
Who could withstand three whizzing musquet balls?
Where were ye, Nymphs, when the remorseless lead
Pierc'd his brave breast—and made your Hero bleed?
He long had boasted your peculiar care;
But ye were daunted at the din of war,
And trembling fled beneath your oozy caves,
Beneath old Lawrence' flood, and Montmorenci's waves!
For Thee the hardy Veteran wept, for Thee
Check'd the strong course of Joy for Victory.
'Twas Fate (and who almighty Fate shall blame)
Took from his Life—and added to his Fame.
Unconquer'd he resign'd his glorious breath,
And Victory sooth'd him in the arms of Death.
Ill-fated Chief! his mighty valour gave
A Realm to Britain—to himself a Grave.
No more!—his fame Envy nor Time shall waste—
Tho' on his precious limbs the worms must feast.
Fresh shall his memory live to latest times,
Fresh and immortal as the Muse's Rhimes.
Took from his Life—and added to his Fame.
Unconquer'd he resign'd his glorious breath,
And Victory sooth'd him in the arms of Death.
Ill-fated Chief! his mighty valour gave
A Realm to Britain—to himself a Grave.
No more!—his fame Envy nor Time shall waste—
Tho' on his precious limbs the worms must feast.
Fresh shall his memory live to latest times,
Fresh and immortal as the Muse's Rhimes.
| The Wiccamical Chaplet | |