Warren monologue (Act 1) — The Battle of Bunkers-Hill

True, valiant Gard'ner, the attempt is vain, To force that entrance to the sea-girt town; Which while we hop'd for peace, and in that view, Kept back our swords, we saw them fortify. But what if haply, with a chosen few, Led through the midnight shades, yon heights were gain'd, And that contiguous hill, whose grassy foot, By Mystic's gentle tide is wash'd. Here rais'd, Strong batt'ries jutting o'er the level sea, With everlasting thunder, shall annoy Their navy far beneath; and in some lucky hour, When dubious darkness on the land is spread, A chosen band may pierce their sep'rate fleet, And in swift boats, across the narrow tide, Pour like a flame, on their unguarded ranks, And wither them: As when an angel smote The Assyrian camp. The proud Sennacherib, With impious rage, against the hill of God, Blasphem'd. Low humbl'd, when the dawning light, Saw all his host dead men: So yet I trust, The God of battles will avouch our cause, And those proud champions of despotic power, Who turn our fasting to their mirth, and mock Our prayers, naming us the SAINTS, shall yet, Repay with blood, the tears and agonies, Of tender mothers, and their infant babes, Shut up in BOSTON.