ACT I. Scene 2. New York, towards the end of the summer of 1780.
Sir Henry Clinton. Colonel Robinson. An Old British Officer.
SIR H. CLINTON.
Rebellion's tatter'd banner droops at last,
Wanting the breath of stirring confidence.
Discord, twin-brother to defeat, now lifts
Within the Congress walls her grating voice—
Fit sound for rebel ears—and in their camp,
Lean want breeds discontent and mutiny:
The while o'er our embattled squadrons waves
High-crested victory, and flaps her wings,
Fanning the fire of native valor. Soon
Shall peace revisit this oppressed land,
So long bestrid by war, whose iron heel
With her own life-blood madly stains her sides.
ROBINSON.
Our arms' success upon the southern shore,—
Whose thirsty sands are saturate with streams
From rebel wounds,—and the discomfiture
Of new-born hopes of aid from fickle France,
Brought on by Rodney's timely coming, have
Ev'n to the stoutest hearts struck black dismay.
OLD OFFICER.
Cast down they may be, but despair's unknown
To their determin'd spirits. Washington's
The same as when in seventy-six he pass'd
The Delaware, and in a darker hour
Than this is, rallied his dishearten'd troops,
And by a stroke of generalship, as shrewd
As bold, back turn'd the tide of victory.
ROBINSON.
But years of fruitless warfare, sucking up
Alike the people's blood and substance, weigh
Upon th' exhausted land, like heaped debts
Of failed enterprise, that clog the step
Of action.