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.
OLD OFFICER.
Deem ye not the spirit dull'd,
Which first impell'd this people to take arms
And brave our mighty power; nor yet the hope
Extinct which has their roused energies
Upheld against such fearful odds. The blood
They've shed, is blood of martyrs—precious oil—
Rich fuel to the flame that's boldly lit
On Freedom's altar, and whose dear perfume,
Upward ascending, is by heroes snuff'd,
Strength'ning the soul of patriotic love
With ireful vengeance.
SIR H. CLINTON.
Whence, my vet'ran Colonel,
Comes it, that you, whose scarred body bears
The outward proofs of inward loyalty,
Do entertain for rebels such regard?
OLD OFFICER.
Custom of war has not so steel'd my heart,
But that its pulse will beat in admiration
Of noble deeds, ev'n though by foemen done.
Nor does my sworn allegiance to my king
Forbid all sympathy with men, who fight—
And fight too with a valiantness which naught
But conscious justice could inspire—for rights
Inherited from British ancestors.
SIR H. CLINTON.
Their yet unconquer'd souls, and the stern front
They have so long oppos'd in equal strife
To our war-practis'd soldiery, attest
Their valor: and for us to stint the meed
Of praise for gallant bearing in the field,
Were self-disparagement, seeing that still
They hold at bay our far-outnumb'ring host.
But for the justice of their cause,—the wrong,
Skill'd to bedeck itself in garb of right,
Oft cheats the conscience broad credulity,
And thus will vice, with virtue's armature
Engirt, fight often unabash'd. Unloose
The spurs, wherewith desire of change, the pride
Of will, hot blood of restless uncurb'd youth
Wanting a distant parent's discipline,
And bold ambition of aspiring chiefs,
Do prick them on to this unnatural war;
And then, how tam'd would be their fiery mettle,
Heated alone by patriotic warmth.