weeping infant babe,
Or meek ey'd virgin, with her sallow cheek,
The rose by famine, wither'd out of it;
Or why the father, or his youthful son,
By me detain'd, from all their relatives,
And, in low dungeons, and, in Gaols chain'd down,
Affect my spirit, when the mighty cause,
Of _George_ and _Britain_, is endangered?
For nobly struggling, in the cause of kings,
We claim the high, the just prerogative,
To rule mankind, and with an iron rod,
Exact submission, due, tho' absolute.
What tho' they style me, villain, murderer,
And imprecate from Heaven, dire thunderbolts,
To crush my purposes--Was that a gun,
Which thunders o'er the wave?--Or is it guilt,
That plays the coward, with my trembling heart,
And cools the blood, with frightful images.
O guilt, thy blackness, hovers on the mind,
Nor can the morning dissipate thy shades.
Yon ruddy morn, which over BUNKERS-HILL,
Advancing slowly, blushes to the bay,
And tips with gold the spires of CHARLES-TOWN.

_Enter BURGOYNE._

The rebel foe, grown yet more insolent,
By that small loss, or rout, at LEXINGTON,
Prevent our purpose and the night by-past,
Have push'd intrenchments, and some flimsy works,
With rude achievement, on the rocky brow,
Of that tall hill. A ship-boy, with the day,
From the tall mast-head, of the Admiral,
Descry'd their aim, and gave the swift alarm.
Our glasses mark, but one small regiment there,
Yet, ev'ry hour we languish in delay,
Inspires fresh hope, and fills their pig'my souls,
With thoughts of holding it. You hear the sound
Of spades and pick-axes, upon the hill,
Incessant, pounding, like old Vulcan's forge,
Urg'd by the Cyclops.

_Enter HOWE._

To your alarm posts, officers; come, gallant souls,
Let's out, and drive them from that eminence,
On which the foe, doth earth himself.
I relish not, such haughty neighbourhood.
Give orders, swiftly, to the Admiral,
That some stout ship heave up the narrow bay,
And pour indignant, from the full-tide wave,
Fierce cannonade, across the isthmus point,
That no assistance may be brought to them.
If but seven hundred, we can treat with them.
Yes, strew the hill, with death, and carcasses,
And offer up, this band, a hecatomb,
To _Britain's_ glory, and the cause of kings.

[_Exeunt BURGOYNE and HOWE._

GAGE [_solus_].

May Heaven protect us, from their rage, I say,
When but a boy, I dream'd of death in bed,
And ever since that time, I hated things