That gloomy prince, whom mortals Satan call,
Must help us quickly, if he help at all.
You strive in vain by force of bribes to tie;
They see through all your schemes with half an eye: If open force with secret bribes I join ;
The contest sickens-and the day is mine.
But hark the trumpet's clangor-hark-ah me!
What means this march of Washington and Lee?
When men, like these, such distant marches make,
Fate whispers something-that we can't mistake;
When men like these defy my martial rule,
Good heaven! it is no time to play the fool.
Perhaps they for their country's freedom rise;
North has, perhaps, deceived me with his lies.
If George at last a tyrant should be found,
A cruel tyrant, by no sanctions bound,
And I, myself, in an unrighteous cause,
Be sent to execute the worst of laws,
How will those dead whom I conjured to fight,-
Who sunk in arms to everlasting night,
Whose blood the conquering foe conspired to spill
At Lexington and Bunker's fatal hill,
Whose mangled corpses scanty grave embrace-
Rise from those graves, and curse me to my face!
Alas! that e'er ambition bade me roam,
Or thirst of power forsake my native home!
What shall I do?-there crowd the hostile bands;
Here waits a navy to receive commands.
I speak the language of my heart-shall I
Steal off by night, and o'er the ocean fly ;
Like a lost man to unknown regions stray,
And to oblivion leave this stormy day?
Or shall I to Britannia's shores again,
And, big with lies, conceal my thousands slain;
Yes, to some distant clime my course I steer;
To any country,-rather than be here;
To worlds where Reason scarce exerts her law,
A branch-built cottage, and a bed of straw.
E'en Scotland's coast seems charming in my sight,
And frozen Zembla yields a strange delight.
But such vexations in my bosom burn,
That to these shores I never will return,
Till fruits and flowers on Greenland's coast be known, And frosts are thaw'd in climates once their own.
Ye souls of fire, who burn for chief command, Come! take my place in this disastrous land; To wars like these I bid a long good-night; Let North and George themselves such battles fight.
76 LORD CORNWALLIS TO SIR HENRY CLINTON.
From York, Virginia.-1781.
FROM clouds of smoke, and flames that round me glow,
To you, dear Clinton, I disclose my wo.
Here cannons flash, bombs glance, and bullets fly;
Nor Arnold's self endures such misery.
Was I foredoom'd in tortures to expire,
Hurl'd to perdition in a blaze of fire?
With these blue flames can mortal man contend
What arms can aid me, or what walls defend?
Even to these gates last night a phantom strode,
And haled me trembling to his dark abode :
Aghast I stood, struck motionless and dumb,
Seized with the horrors of the world to come.
Were but my power as mighty as my rage,
Far different battles would Cornwallis wage,
Beneath his sword yon threatening hosts should groan,
The earth would quake with thunders all his own.
O crocodile! had I thy flinty hide,
Swords to defy, and glance the balls aside,
By my own prowess would I rout the foe,
With my own javelin would I work their wo;
But fates averse, by Heaven's supreme decree,
Nile's serpent form'd more excellent than me.
Has Heaven, in secret, for some crime decreed
That I should suffer, and my soldiers bleed?
Or is it by the jealous powers conceal'd,
That I must bend, and they ignobly yield?
Ah! no; the thought o'erwhelms my soul with grief;
Come, bold Sir Harry, come to my relief;
Come, thou brave man, whom rebels Tombstone call,
But Britons, Graves; come Digby, devil, and all;
Come princely William, with thy potent aid,
Can George's blood by Frenchmen be dismay'd?
From a king's uncle once Scotch rebels run,
And shall not these be routed by a son?
Come with your ships to this disastrous shore,
Come-or I sink-and sink to rise no more.
By every motive that can sway the brave,
Haste, and my feeble fainting army save;
Come, and lost empire o'er the deep regain,
Chastise these upstarts that usurp the main;
I see their first-rates to the charge advance,
I see lost Iris wear the flags of France;
There a strict rule the wakeful Frenchman keeps,
There, on no bed of down, Lord Rawdon sleeps!
Tired with long acting on this bloody stage,
Sick of the follies of the wrangling age,
Come with your fleet, and help me to retire
To Britain's coast, the land of my desire;
For me the foe their certain captive deem,
And every trifler takes me for his theme;
Long, much too long, in this hard service tried,
Bespatter'd still, bedevil'd and belied;
With the first chance that favouring fortune sends,
I fly, converted, from this land of fiends;
Convinced, for me, she has no gems in store,
Nor leaves one triumph, even to hope for more.
HAIL, great destroyer (equall'd yet by none)
Of countries not your master's, nor your own;
Hatch'd by some demon on a stormy day,
Satan's best substitute to burn and slay;
Confined at last; hemm'd in by land and sea,
Burgoyne himself was but a type of thee!
Like his, to freedom was your deadly hate,
Like his your baseness, and be his your fate:
To you, like him, no prospect nature yields
But ruin'd wastes and desolated fields;
In vain you raise the interposing wall,
And hoist those standards that, like you, must fall:
In
you conclude the glories of your race,
Complete your monarch's and your own disgrace.
What has your lordship's pilfering arms attain'd?
Vast stores of plunder, but no state regain'd:
That may return, though you perhaps may groan;
Restore it, Charley, for 'tis not your own;
Then, lord and soldier, headlong to the brine
Rush down at once-the devil and the swine.
Wouldst thou at last with Washington engage,
Sad object of his pity, not his rage?
See, round thy posts how terribly advance
The chiefs, the armies, and the fleets of France;
Fight while you can, for warlike Rochambeau
Aims at your head his last decisive blow;
Unnumber'd ghosts, from earth untimely sped,
Can take no rest till you, like them, are dead;
Then die, my lord; that only chance remains
To wipe away dishonourable stains;
For small advantage would your capture bring,
The plundering servant of a bankrupt king.
78 SIR GUY CARLETON'S ADDRESS TO THE AMERICANS.-1782.
FROM Britain's famed island once more I come over, (No island on earth is in prowess above her,)
With powers and commissions your hearts to recover.
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