hall yet,
Repay with blood, the tears and agonies,
Of tender mothers, and their infant babes,
Shut up in BOSTON.

PUTNAM.

Heaven, smile on us then,
And favour this attempt. Now from our troops,
Seven hundred gallant men, and skill'd in arms,
With speed select, choice spirits of the war.
By you led on, brave Gard'ner, to the heights,
Ere yet the morn with dawning light breaks forth,
Intrench on BUNKERS-HILL; and when the day
First o'er the hill top rises, we shall join
United arms, against the assailing foe,
Should they attempt to cross the narrow tide,
In deep battalion to regain the hill.

GARDINER.

The thought is perilous, and many men,
In this bold enterprise, must strew the ground.
But since we combat in the cause of God,
I draw my sword, nor shall the sheath again
Receive the shining blade, till on the heights
Of CHARLES-TOWN, and BUNKER'S pleasant HILL,
It drinks the blood of many a warrior slain.

ACT II.

SCENE I. _Boston._

_Enter GAGE, HOWE, and BURGOYNE._

BURGOYNE.

How long, brave gen'rals, shall the rebel foe,
In vain arrangements, and mock siege, display
Their haughty insolence?--Shall in this town,
So many thousands, of _Britannia's_ troops,
With watch incessant, and sore toil oppress'd,
Remain besieg'd? A vet'ran army pent,
In the inclosure, of so small a space,
By a disorder'd herd, untaught, unofficer'd.
Let not sweet Heav'n, the envious mouth of fame,
With breath malignant, o'er the Atlantic wave
Bear this to Europe's shores, or tell to France,
Or haughty Spain, of LEXINGTON'S retreat.
Who could have thought it, in the womb of time,
That _British_ soldiers, in this latter age,
Beat back by peasants, and in flight disgrac'd,
Could tamely brook the base discomfiture;
Nor sallying out, with spirit reassum'd,
Exact due tribute of their victory?
Drive back the foe, to Alleghany hills,
In woody valleys, or on mountain tops,
To mix with wolves and kindred savages.

GAGE.

This mighty paradox, will soon dissolve.
Hear first, Burgoyne, the valour of these men,
Fir'd with the zeal, of fiercest liberty,
No fear of death, so terrible to all,
Can stop their rage. Grey-headed clergymen,
With holy bible, and continual prayer,
Bear up their fortitude--and talk of heav'n,
And tell them, that sweet soul, who dies in battle,
Shall walk, with spirits of the just. These words
Add wings to native rage, and hurry them
Impetuous to war. Nor yet in arms