Читать книгу: «The Battle of Bunkers-Hill», страница 3

ACT II

Scene I. Boston

Enter Gage, Howe, and Burgoyne

Burgoyne

 
How long, brave gen'rals, shall the rebel foe,
In vain arrangements, and mock siege, display
Their haughty insolence? – Shall in this town,
So many thousands, of Britannia's troops,
With watch incessant, and sore toil oppress'd,
Remain besieg'd? A vet'ran army pent,
In the inclosure, of so small a space,
By a disorder'd herd, untaught, unofficer'd.
Let not sweet Heav'n, the envious mouth of fame,
With breath malignant, o'er the Atlantic wave
Bear this to Europe's shores, or tell to France,
Or haughty Spain, of Lexington's retreat.
Who could have thought it, in the womb of time,
That British soldiers, in this latter age,
Beat back by peasants, and in flight disgrac'd,
Could tamely brook the base discomfiture;
Nor sallying out, with spirit reassum'd,
Exact due tribute of their victory?
Drive back the foe, to Alleghany hills,
In woody valleys, or on mountain tops,
To mix with wolves and kindred savages.
 

Gage

 
This mighty paradox, will soon dissolve.
Hear first, Burgoyne, the valour of these men,
Fir'd with the zeal, of fiercest liberty,
No fear of death, so terrible to all,
Can stop their rage. Grey-headed clergymen,
With holy bible, and continual prayer,
Bear up their fortitude – and talk of heav'n,
And tell them, that sweet soul, who dies in battle,
Shall walk, with spirits of the just. These words
Add wings to native rage, and hurry them
Impetuous to war. Nor yet in arms
Unpractised. The day of Lexington
A sad conviction gave our soldiery,
That these Americans, were not that herd,
And rout ungovern'd, which we painted them.
 

Howe

 
Not strange to your maturer thought, Burgoyne,
This matter will appear. A people brave,
Who never yet, of luxury, or soft
Delights, effeminate, and false, have tasted.
But, through hate of chains, and slav'ry, suppos'd,
Forsake their mountain tops, and rush to arms.
Oft have I heard their valour published:
Their perseverance, and untamable,
Fierce mind, when late they fought with us, and drove,
The French encroaching on their settlements,
Back to their frozen lakes. Or when with us
On Cape Breton, they stormed Louisburg.
With us in Canada, they took Quebec;
And at the Havannah, these New-England Men,
Led on by Putnam, acted gallantly.
I had a brother once, who in that war,
With fame commanded them, and when he fell,
Not unlamented; for these warriors,
So brave themselves, and sensible of merit,
Erected him a costly monument;
And much it grieves me that I draw my sword,
For this late insurrection and revolt,
To chastise them. Would to Almighty God,
The task unnatural, had been assign'd,
Elsewhere. But since by Heaven, determined,
Let's on, and wipe the day of Lexington,
Thus soil'd, quite from our soldiers' memories.
This reinforcement, which with us have fail'd,
In many a transport, from Britannia's shores,
Will give new vigour to the Royal Arms,
And crush rebellion, in its infancy.
Let's on, and from this siege, calamitous,
Assert our liberty; nay, rather die,
Transfix'd in battle, by their bayonets,
Than thus remain, the scoff and ridicule
Of gibing wits, and paltry gazetteers,
On this, their madding continent, who cry,
Where is the British valour: that renown
Which spoke in thunder, to the Gallic shores?
That spirit is evaporate, that fire;
Which erst distinguish'd them, that flame;
And gen'rous energy of soul, which fill'd
Their Henrys, Edwards, thunder-bolts of war;
Their Hampdens, Marlboroughs, and the immortal Wolfe,
On the Abraham heights, victorious.
Britannia's genius, is unfortunate,
And flags, say they, when Royal tyranny
Directs her arms. This let us then disprove,
In combat speedily, and take from them,
The wantonness of this fell pride, and boasting.
 

Gage

 
Tho' much I dread the issue of the attempt,
So full of hazard, and advent'rous spirit;
Yet since your judgment, and high skill in arms,
From full experience, boldly prompts you on,
I give my voice, and when one day hath pass'd,
In whose swift hours, may be wrought, highly up,
The resolution, of the soldiery,
With soothing words, and ample promises,
Of rich rewards, in lands and settlements,
From the confiscate property throughout,
These rebel colonies, at length subdu'd;
Then march we forth, beat up their drowsy camp,
And with the sun, to this safe capital,
Return, rich, with the triumphs of the war.
And be our plan, that which brave Haldiman,
Ere yet recall'd, advis'd to us. Let first,
Brave Howe, and Clinton, on that western point,
Land with the transports, and mean time Burgoyne,
With the artillery, pour sharp cannonade,
Along the neck, and sweep, the beachy plain,
Which lies to Roxborough, where yon western stream,
Flowing from Cambridge, mixes with the Bay.
Thus, these Americans, shall learn to dread,
The force of discipline, and skill in arms.
 

ACT III

Scene I. Bunkers-Hill

Enter Gardiner, with seven hundred men

Gardiner

 
This is the hill, brave countrymen, whose brow
We mean to fortify. A strong redoubt,
With saliant angles, and embrasures deep,
Be speedily thrown up. Let each himself,
Not undeserving, of our choice approve,
For out of thousands, I have challeng'd you,
To this bold enterprise, as men of might,
And valour eminent, and such this day,
I trust, will honour you. Let each his spade,
And pick-axe, vig'rously, in this hard soil,
Where I have laid, the curved line, exert.
For now the morning star, bright Lucifer,
Peers on the firmament, and soon the day,
Flush'd with the golden sun, shall visit us.
Then gallant countrymen, should faithless Gage,
Pour forth his lean, and half-starv'd myrmidons;
We'll make them taste our cartridges, and know,
What rugged steel, our bayonets are made of;
Or if o'er charg'd, with numbers, bravely fall,
Like those three hundred at Thermopylæ,
And give our Country, credit in our deaths.
 

ACT IV

Scene I. Boston

Gage [solus]

 
Oh, sweet tranquillity, and peace of soul,
That in the bosom of the cottager,
Tak'st up thy residence – cannot the beams,
Of royal sunshine, call thee to my breast?
Fair honour, waits on thee, renown abroad,
And high dominion, o'er this Continent,
Soon as the spirit, of rebellious war,
Is scourg'd into obedience. Why then, ye Gods,
This inward gnawing, and remorse of thought,
For perfidy, and breach of promises!
Why should the spouse, or weeping infant babe,
Or meek ey'd virgin, with her sallow cheek,
The rose by famine, wither'd out of it;
Or why the father, or his youthful son,
By me detain'd, from all their relatives,
And, in low dungeons, and, in Gaols chain'd down,
Affect my spirit, when the mighty cause,
Of George and Britain, is endangered?
For nobly struggling, in the cause of kings,
We claim the high, the just prerogative,
To rule mankind, and with an iron rod,
Exact submission, due, tho' absolute.
What tho' they style me, villain, murderer,
And imprecate from Heaven, dire thunderbolts,
To crush my purposes – Was that a gun,
Which thunders o'er the wave? – Or is it guilt,
That plays the coward, with my trembling heart,
And cools the blood, with frightful images.
O guilt, thy blackness, hovers on the mind,
Nor can the morning dissipate thy shades.
Yon ruddy morn, which over Bunkers-Hill,
Advancing slowly, blushes to the bay,
And tips with gold the spires of Charles-town.
 

Enter Burgoyne

 
The rebel foe, grown yet more insolent,
By that small loss, or rout, at Lexington,
Prevent our purpose and the night by-past,
Have push'd intrenchments, and some flimsy works,
With rude achievement, on the rocky brow,
Of that tall hill. A ship-boy, with the day,
From the tall mast-head, of the Admiral,
Descry'd their aim, and gave the swift alarm.
Our glasses mark, but one small regiment there,
Yet, ev'ry hour we languish in delay,
Inspires fresh hope, and fills their pig'my souls,
With thoughts of holding it. You hear the sound
Of spades and pick-axes, upon the hill,
Incessant, pounding, like old Vulcan's forge,
Urg'd by the Cyclops.
 

Enter Howe

 
To your alarm posts, officers; come, gallant souls,
Let's out, and drive them from that eminence,
On which the foe, doth earth himself.
I relish not, such haughty neighbourhood.
Give orders, swiftly, to the Admiral,
That some stout ship heave up the narrow bay,
And pour indignant, from the full-tide wave,
Fierce cannonade, across the isthmus point,
That no assistance may be brought to them.
If but seven hundred, we can treat with them.
Yes, strew the hill, with death, and carcasses,
And offer up, this band, a hecatomb,
To Britain's glory, and the cause of kings.
 

[Exeunt Burgoyne and Howe.

Gage [solus]

 
May Heaven protect us, from their rage, I say,
When but a boy, I dream'd of death in bed,
And ever since that time, I hated things
Which put him, like a pair of spectacles,
Before my eyes. The thought lies deep in fate,
Nor can a mortal see the bottom of it.
'Tis here – 'Tis there – I could philosophize —
Eternity, is like a winding sheet —
The seven commandments like – I think there's seven —
I scratch my head – but yet in vain I scratch —
Oh Bute, and Dartmouth, knew ye what I feel,
You sure would pity an old drinking man,
That has more heart-ake, than philosophy.
 

[Exit.

Scene II. Howe with the British Army

Howe

 
The day at length, propitious shews itself,
And with full beams of majesty, the sun,
Hath bless'd its fair nativity; when Heaven,
Brave soldiers, and the cause of kings,
Calls on the spirit of your loyalty,
To chastise this rebellion, and tread down,
Such foul ingratitude – such monstrous shape,
Of horrid liberty, which spurns that love —
That fond maternal tenderness of soul,
Which on this dreary coast, first planted them:
Restrain'd the rage, of murdering savages,
Which, with fierce inroad, on their settlements,
Made frequent war – struck down the arm of France,
Just rais'd, to crush them, in their infancy:
And since that time, have bade their cities grow,
To marts of trade: call'd fair-ey'd commerce forth,
To share dominion, on the distant wave,
And visit every clime, and foreign shore.
Yet this, brave soldiers, is the proud return,
For the best blood of England, shed for them.
Behold yon hill, where fell rebellion rears
Her snake-stream'd ensign, and would seem to brave
With scarce seven hundred, this sea-bounded Camp,
Where may be counted, full ten thousand men,
That in the war with France so late, acquir'd
Loud fame, and shook the other continent.
Come on, brave soldiers, seize your gleaming arms,
And let this day, in after times be held,
As Minden famous, and each hostile field,
Where British valour shone victorious.
The time moves slow, which enviously detains,
Our just resentment from these traitors' heads.
Their richest farms, and cultur'd settlements,
By winding river, or extensive bay,
Shall be your first reward. Our noble king,
As things confiscate, holds their property,
And in rich measure, will bestow on you,
Who face the frowns, and labour of this day.