cause of liberty, with me
Faint or expire. By the last parting breath,
And blood of this your fellow soldier slain,
Be now adjur'd, never to yield the right,
The grand deposit of all-giving Heaven,
To man's free nature, that he rule himself.
With these rude Britons, wage life-scorning war,
Till they admit it, and like hell fall off,
With ebbing billows, from this troubl'd coast,
Where but for them firm Concord, and true love,
Should individual, hold their court and reign.
Th' infernal engin'ry of state, resist
To death, that unborn times may be secure,
And while men flourish in the peace you win,
Write each fair name with worthies of the earth.
Weep not your Gen'ral, who is snatch'd this day,
From the embraces of a family,
Five virgin daughters young, and unendow'd,
Now with the foe left lone and fatherless.
Weep not for him who first espous'd the cause
And risking life have met the enemy,
In fatal opposition--But rejoice--
For now I go to mingle with the dead,
Great Brutus, Hampden, Sidney, and the rest,
Of old or modern memory, who liv'd,
A mound to tyrants, and strong hedge to kings,
Bounding the inundation of their rage,
Against the happiness and peace of man.
I see these heroes where they walk serene,
By crystal currents, on the vale of Heaven,
High in full converse of immortal acts,
Achiev'd for truth and innocence on earth.
Mean time the harmony and thrilling sound
Of mellow lutes, sweet viols, and guitars,
Dwell on the soul and ravish ev'ry nerve.
Anon the murmur of the tight-brac'd drum,
With finely varied fifes to martial airs,
Wind up the spirit to the mighty proof
Of siege and battle, and attempt in arms.
Illustrious group! They beckon me along,
To ray my visage with immortal light,
And bind the amarinth around my brow.
I come, I come, ye first-born of true fame.
Fight on, my countrymen, be FREE, be FREE.

SCENE V. _Charles-town._

_The reinforcement landed, and orders given to burn Charles-town, that
they may march up more securely under the smoke. GENERAL HOWE rallies
his repuls'd and broken troops._

HOWE.

Curse on the fortune, of _Britannia's_ arms,
That plays the jilt with us. Shall these few men
Beat back the flower, and best half of our troops,
While on our side, so many ships of war,
And floating batt'ries, from the mystic tide,
Shake all the hill, and sweep its ridgy top?
O Gods! no time can blot its memory out.
We've men enough, upon the field today,
To bury, this s