[237] The Royal George, 108 guns, while being refitted at Spithead, August 29, 1782, was heeled over too far by her crew, causing her suddenly to sink. Admiral Kempenfelt and nearly 800 men perished in this disaster.
A NEW-YORK TORY'S EPISTLE[238]
To one of his Friends in Pennsylvania.—Written previous to his Departure for Nova Scotia
May, 1783
Dark glooms the day that sees me leave this shore,
To which fate whispers I must come no more:
From civil broils what dire disasters flow—
Those broils condemn me to a land of woe
Where barren pine trees shade the dreary steep,
Frown o'er the soil or murmur to the deep,
Where sullen fogs their heavy wings expand,
And nine months' winter chills the dismal land!
Could no kind stars have mark'd a different way,
Stars that presided on my natal day?—
Why is not man endued with power to know
The ends and upshots of events below?
Why did not heaven (some other gift deny'd)
Teach me to take the true-born Buckskin side,
Show me the balance of the wavering fates
And fortune smiling on these new-born States!
Friend of my heart!—my refuge and relief,
Who help'd me on through seven long years of grief,
Whose better genius taught you to remain
In the soft quiet of your rural reign,
Who still despised the Rebels and their cause,
And, while you paid the taxes, damn'd their laws,
And wisely stood spectator of the fray,
Nor trusted George, whate'er he chose to say;
Thrice happy thou, who wore a double face,
And as the balance turn'd could each embrace;
Too happy Janus! had I shar'd thy art,
To speak a language foreign to my heart,
And stoop'd from pomp and dreams of regal state,
To court the friendship of the men I hate,
These strains of woe had not been penn'd to-day,
Nor I to foreign climes been forc'd away:
Ah! George—that name provokes my keenest rage,
Did he not swear, and promise, and engage
His loyal sons to nurture and defend,
To be their God, their father and their friend—
Yet basely quits us on a hostile coast,
And leaves us wretched where we need him most:
His is the part to promise and deceive,
By him we wander and by him we grieve;
Since the first day that these dissentions grew,
When Gage to Boston brought his blackguard crew,[239]
From place to place we urge our vagrant flight
To follow still this vapour of the night,
From town to town have run our various race,
And acted all that's mean and all that's base—
Yes—from that day until this hour we roam,
Vagrants forever from our native home!
And yet, perhaps, fate sees the golden hour
When happier hands shall crush rebellious power,
When hostile tribes their plighted faith shall own
And swear subjection to the British throne,
When George the Fourth shall their petitions spurn,
And banish'd Tories to their fields return.
From dreams of conquest, worlds and empires won
Britain awaking, mourns her setting sun,
No rays of joy her evening hour illume,
'Tis one sad chaos, one unmingled gloom!
Too soon she sinks unheeded to the grave,
No eye to pity and no hand to save:
What are her crimes that she alone must bend?
Where are her hosts to conquer and defend—
Must she alone with these new regions part,
These realms that lay the nearest to her heart,
But soar'd at once to independent power,
Not sunk like Scotland in the trying hour?—
See slothful Spaniards golden empires keep,
And rule vast realms beyond the Atlantic deep;
Must we alone surrender half our reign,
And they their empires and their worlds retain?
Britannia, rise—send Johnstone to Peru,
Seize thy bold thunders and the war renew,
Conquest or ruin—one must be thy doom,
Strike—and secure a triumph or a tomb!
But we, sad outcasts from our native reign,
Driven from these shores, a poor deluded train,
In distant wilds, conducted by despair,
Seek, vainly seek, a hiding place from care!
Even now yon' tribes, the foremost of the band,
Croud to the ships and cover all the strand:
Forc'd from their friends, their country, and their God,
I see the unhappy miscreants leave the sod!
Matrons and men walk sorrowing side by side
And virgin grief, and poverty, and pride,
All, all with aching hearts prepare to sail
And late repentance that has no avail!
While yet I stand on this forbidden ground
I hear the death-bell of destruction sound,
And threat'ning hosts with vengeance on their brow
Cry, "Where are Britain's base adherents now?"
These, hot for vengeance, by resentment led,
Blame on our hearts the failings of the head;
To us no peace, no favours they extend,
Their rage no bounds, their hatred knows no end;
In one firm league I see them all combin'd,
We, like the damn'd, can no forgiveness find—
As soon might Satan from perdition rise,
And the lost angels gain their vanish'd skies
As malice cease in their dark souls to burn,
Or we, once fled, be suffer'd to return.
Curs'd be the union that was form'd with France,
I see their lillies and the stars advance!
Did they not turn our triumphs to retreats,
And prove our conquests nothing but defeats?—
My heart misgives me as their chiefs draw near,
I feel the influence of all potent fear,
Henceforth must I, abandon'd and distrest,
Knock at the door of pride, a beggar guest,
And learn from years of misery and pain
Not to oppose fair Freedom's cause again!—
One truth is clear from changes such as these,[240]
Kings cannot always conquer when they please,
Nor are they rebels who mere freedom claim,
Conquest alone can ratify the name—
But great the task, their efforts to controul
When genuine virtue fires the stubborn soul;
The warlike beast in Lybian deserts plac'd
To reign the master of the sun-burnt waste,
Not tamely yields to bear a servile chain,
Force may attempt it, and attempt in vain,
Nervous and bold, by native valour led,
His prowess strikes the proud invader dead,
By force nor fraud from freedom's charms beguil'd
He reigns secure the monarch of the wild.
Tantalus.
[238] Freeman's Journal, May 7, 1783. In the later editions it was entitled "Renegado Epistle." Text from the edition of 1786.
[239] Two added lines in the later editions:
"Amused with conquests, honours, riches, fame,
Posts, titles, earldoms—and a deathless name."