Richardson [a young officer, on the parapet].
The day is ours, huzza, the day is ours,
This last attack has forc'd them to retreat.
Clinton.
'Tis true, full victory declares for us,
But we have dearly, dearly purchas'd it.
Full fifteen hundred of our men lie dead,
Who, with their officers, do swell the list
Of this day's carnage—On the well-fought hill,
Whole ranks cut down, lie struggling with their wounds,
Or close their bright eyes, in the shades of night.
No wonder! such incessant musketry,
And fire of Cannon, from the hill-top pour'd,
Seem'd not the agency of mortal men,
But Heaven itself, with snares, and vengeance arm'd,
T' oppose our gaining it. E'en when was spent
Their ammunition, and fierce Warren slain,
Huge stones were hurled from the rocky brow,
And war renew'd, by these inveterate;
Till Gard'ner wounded, the left wing gave way,
And with their shatter'd infantry, the whole,
Drawn off by Putnam, to the causeway fled,
When from the ships, and batt'ries on the wave
They met deep loss, and strew'd the narrow bridge,
With lifeless carcases. Oh, such a day,
Since Sodom and Gomorrah sunk in flames,
Hath not been heard of by the ear of man,
Nor hath an eye beheld its parallel.
Lord Pigot.
The day is ours, but with heart-piercing loss,
Of soldiers slain, and gallant officers.
Old Abercrombie, on the field lies dead.
Pitcairn and Sherwin, in sore battle slain.
The gallant reg'ment of Welsh fusileers,
To seventeen privates, is this day reduc'd.
The grenadiers stand thinly on the hill,
Like the tall fir-trees on the blasted heath,
Scorch'd by the autumnal burnings, which have rush'd,
With wasting fire fierce through its leafy groves.
Should ev'ry hill by the rebellious foe,
So well defended, cost thus dear to us,
Not the united forces of the world,
Could master them, and the proud rage subdue
Of these Americans.—
Howe.
E'en in an enemy I honour worth,
And valour eminent. The vanquish'd foe,
In feats of prowess shew their ancestry,
And speak their birth legitimate;
The sons of Britons, with the genuine flame,
Of British heat, and valour in their veins.
What pity 'tis, such excellence of mind,
Should spend itself, in the fantastic cause,
Of wild-fire liberty.—Warren is dead,
And lies unburied, on the smoky hill;
But with rich honours he shall be inhum'd,
To teach our soldiery, how much we love,
E'en in a foe, true worth and noble fortitude.
Come then, brave soldiers, and take up the dead,
Majors, and Col'nels, which are this day slain,
And noble Captains of sweet life bereft.
Fair flowers shall grow upon their grassy tombs,
And fame in tears shall tell their tragedy,
To many a widow and soft weeping maid,
Or parent woe-ful for an only son,
Through mourning Britain, and Hibernia's isle.
Enter Burgoyne from Boston.
Oft have I read, in the historic page,
And witnessed myself, high scenes in war:
But this rude day, unparallel'd in time,
Has no competitor—The gazing eye,
Of many a soldier, from the chimney-tops,
And spires of Boston, witnessed when Howe,
With his full thousands, moving up the hill,
Receiv'd the onset of the impetuous foe.
The hill itself, like Ida's burning mount,
When Jove came down, in terrors, to dismay
The Grecian host, enshrouded in thick flames;
And round its margin, to the ebbing wave,
A town on fire, and rushing from its base,
With ruin hideous, and combustion down.
Mean time, deep thunder, from the hollow sides
Of the artill'ry, on the hilltop hear'd,
With roar of thunder, and loud mortars play'd,
From the tall ships, and batt'ries on the wave,
Bade yon blue ocean, and wide heaven resound.
A scene like which, perhaps, no time shall know,
Till Heav'n with final ruin fires the ball,
Burns up the cities, and the works of men,
And wraps the mountains in one gen'ral blaze.