The Battle of Bunkers-Hill

Warren. _Mortally wounded, falling on his right knee, covering his breast with his right hand, and supporting himself with his firelock in his left._

A deadly ball hath limited my life, And now to God, I offer up my soul. But O my Countrymen, let not the cause, The sacred cause of liberty, with me Faint or expire. By the last parting breath, And blood of this your fellow soldier slain, Be now adjur'd, never to yield the right, The grand deposit of all-giving Heaven, To man's free nature, that he rule himself. With these rude Britons, wage life-scorning war, Till they admit it, and like hell fall off, With ebbing billows, from this troubl'd coast, Where but for them firm Concord, and true love, Should individual, hold their court and reign. Th' infernal engin'ry of state, resist To death, that unborn times may be secure, And while men flourish in the peace you win, Write each fair name with worthies of the earth. Weep not your Gen'ral, who is snatch'd this day, From the embraces of a family, Five virgin daughters young, and unendow'd, Now with the foe left lone and fatherless. Weep not for him who first espous'd the cause And risking life have met the enemy, In fatal opposition--But rejoice-- For now I go to mingle with the dead, Great Brutus, Hampden, Sidney, and the rest, Of old or modern memory, who liv'd, A mound to tyrants, and strong hedge to kings, Bounding the inundation of their rage, Against the happiness and peace of man. I see these heroes where they walk serene, By crystal currents, on the vale of Heaven, High in full converse of immortal acts, Achiev'd for truth and innocence on earth. Mean time the harmony and thrilling sound Of mellow lutes, sweet viols, and guitars, Dwell on the soul and ravish ev'ry nerve. Anon the murmur of the tight-brac'd drum, With finely varied fifes to martial airs, Wind up the spirit to the mighty proof Of siege and battle, and attempt in arms. Illustrious group! They beckon me along, To ray my visage with immortal light, And bind the amarinth around my brow. I come, I come, ye first-born of true fame. Fight on, my countrymen, be FREE, be FREE.

SCENE V. _Charles-town._

_The reinforcement landed, and orders given to burn Charles-town, that they may march up more securely under the smoke. GENERAL HOWE rallies his repuls'd and broken troops._

Howe. Curse on the fortune, of _Britannia's_ arms, That plays the jilt with us. Shall these few men Beat back the flower, and best half of our troops, While on our side, so many ships of war, And floating batt'ries, from the mystic tide, Shake all the hill, and sweep its ridgy top? O Gods! no time can blot its memory out. We've men enough, upon the field today, To bury, this small handful, with the dust Our march excites--back to the charge--close ranks, And drive these wizards from th' enchanted ground. The reinforcement, which bold Clinton heads, Gives such superiority of strength, That let each man of us but cast a stone, We cover this small hill, with these few foes, And over head, erect a pyramid, The smoke, you see, enwraps us in its shade, On, then, my countrymen, and try once more, To change the fortune, of the inglorious day.

SCENE VI. _Bunkers-Hill._

GARDINER [_to the American Army_].

You see, brave soldiers, how an evil cause, A cause of slavery, and civil death, Unmans the spirit, and strikes down the soul. The gallant _Englishman_, whose fame in arms, Through every clime, shakes terribly the globe, Is found this day, shorn of his wonted strength, Repuls'd, and driven from the flaming hill. Warren is fallen, on fair honour's bed, Pierc'd in the breast, with ev'ry wound before. 'Tis ours, now tenfold, to avenge his death, And offer up, a reg'ment of the foe, Achilles-like, upon the Hero's tomb. See, reinforc'd they face us yet again, And onward move in phalanx to the war. O noble spirits, let this bold attack, Be bloody to their host. GOD is our Aid, Give then full scope, to just revenge this day.

SCENE VII. _The Bay-Shore._

_The British Army once more repuls'd, HOWE again rallies his flying troops._

Howe. But that so many mouths can witness it, I would deny myself an _Englishman_, And swear this day, that with such cowardice, No kindred, or alliance, has my birth. O base degen'rate souls, whose ancestors, At Cressy, Poitiers, and at Agincourt, With tenfold numbers, combated, and pluck'd The budding laurels, from the brows of France. Back to the charge, once more, and rather die, Burn'd up, and wither'd on this bloody hill, Than live the blemish of your Country's fame, With everlasting infamy, oppress'd. Their ammunition, as you hear, is spent, So that unless their looks, and visages, Like fierce-ey'd Basilisks, can strike you dead; Return, and rescue yet, sweet Countrymen, Some share of honour, on this hapless day. Let some brave officers stand on the rear, And with the small sword, and sharp bayonet, Drive on each coward that attempts to lag, That thus, sure death may find the villain out, With more dread certainty, than him who moves, Full in the van, to meet the wrathful foe.

SCENE VIII. _Bunkers-Hill._

_GARDINER, desperately wounded and borne from the field by two soldiers._

Gardiner. A musket-ball, death-wing'd, hath pierc'd my groin, And widely op'd the swift curr'nt of my veins. Bear me then, Soldiers, to that hollow space, A little hence, just in the hill's decline. A surgeon there may stop the gushing wound, And gain a short respite to life, that yet I may return, and fight one half hour more. Then, shall I die in peace, and to my GOD, Surrender up, the spirit, which He gave.