?
These sons of slavery dare not advance,
And meet in equal fight our hostile arms.
For yet they well remember LEXINGTON,
And what they suffer'd on that rueful day,
When wantoning in savage rage, they march'd
Onward to CONCORD, in a firm array,
Mock music playing, and the ample flag
Of tyranny display'd; but with dire loss
And infamy drove back, they gain'd the town,
And under cover of their ships of war,
Retir'd, confounded and dismay'd. No more
In mirthful mood to combat us, or mix
Their jocund music with the sounds of war.
To tempt no more unequal fight with men,
Who to oppose dire arbitrary sway,
Have grasp'd the sword: and resolute to brave
Death in a thousand dreary shapes, can know,
In the warm breast, no sentiment of fear.

GARDINER.

The free born spirit of immortal fire
Is stranger to ignoble deeds, and shuns
The name of cowardice. But well thy mind,
Sage, and matur'd by long experience, weighs
The perilous attempt, to storm the town,
And rescue thence, the suff'ring citizens.
For but one pass to that peninsula,
On which the city stands, on all sides barr'd.
And here what numbers can supply the rage,
Of the all devouring, deep mouth'd cannon, plac'd,
On many a strong redoubt: while on each side,
The ships of war, moor'd, in the winding bay,
Can sweep ten thousand from the level beach,
"And render all access impregnable."

WARREN.

True, valiant Gard'ner, the attempt is vain,
To force that entrance to the sea-girt town;
Which while we hop'd for peace, and in that view,
Kept back our swords, we saw them fortify.
But what if haply, with a chosen few,
Led through the midnight shades, yon heights were gain'd,
And that contiguous hill, whose grassy foot,
By Mystic's gentle tide is wash'd. Here rais'd,
Strong batt'ries jutting o'er the level sea,
With everlasting thunder, shall annoy
Their navy far beneath; and in some lucky hour,
When dubious darkness on the land is spread,
A chosen band may pierce their sep'rate fleet,
And in swift boats, across the narrow tide,
Pour like a flame, on their unguarded ranks,
And wither them: As when an angel smote
The Assyrian camp. The proud Sennacherib,
With impious rage, against the hill of God,
Blasphem'd. Low humbl'd, when the dawning light,
Saw all his host dead men: So yet I trust,
The God of battles will avouch our cause,
And those proud champions of despotic power,
Who turn our fasting to their mirth, and mock
Our prayers, naming us the SAINTS, s