The Battle of Bunkers-Hill
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ACT III
Scene I. Bunkers-Hill Enter Gardiner, with seven hundred menGardinerThis is the hill, brave countrymen, whose browWe 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. BostonGage [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 BurgoyneThe 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 soundOf spades and pick-axes, upon the hill,Incessant, pounding, like old Vulcan's forge,Urg'd by the Cyclops. Enter HoweTo 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 thingsWhich 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 ArmyHoweThe 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 rearsHer snake-stream'd ensign, and would seem to braveWith scarce seven hundred, this sea-bounded Camp,Where may be counted, full ten thousand men,That in the war with France so late, acquir'dLoud 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.He that outlives this battle, shall ascend,In titled honour, to the height of state,Dukedoms, and baronies, midst these our foes,In tributary vassalage, kept down,Shall be your fair inheritance. Come on,Beat up th' heroic sound of war. The wordIs, George our sov'reign, and Britannia's arms.ACT V
Scene I. Bunkers-HillWarren with the American ArmyWarrenTo arms, brave countrymen, for see the foeComes forth to battle, and would seem to try,Once more, their fortune in decisive war.Three thousand, 'gainst seven hundred, rang'd this day,Shall give the world, an ample specimen,What strength, and noble confidence, the soundOf Liberty inspires. That Liberty,Which, not the thunder of Bellona's voice,With fleets, and armies, from the British Shore,Shall wrest from us. Our noble ancestors,Out-brav'd the tempests, of the hoary deep,And on these hills, uncultivate, and wild,Sought an asylum, from despotic sway;A short asylum, for that envious power,With persecution dire, still follows us.At first, they deem'd our charters forfeited,Next, our just rights, in government, abridg'd.Then, thrust in viceroys, and bashaws, to rule,With lawless sovereignty. Now added force,Of standing armies, to secure their sway.Much have we suffer'd from the licens'd rage,Of brutal soldiery, in each fair town.Remember March, brave countrymen, that dayWhen Boston's streets ran blood. Think on that day,And let the memory, to revenge, stir up,The temper of your souls. There might we still,On terms precarious, and disdainful liv'd,With daughters ravished, and butcher'd sons,But Heaven forbade the thought. These are the men,Who in firm phalanx, threaten us with war,And aim this day, to fix forever down,The galling chains, which tyranny has forg'd for us,These count our lands and settlements their own,And in their intercepted letters, speak,Of farms, and tenements, secured for friends,Which, if they gain, brave soldiers, let with blood,The purchase, be seal'd down. Let every arm,This day be active, in fair freedom's cause,And shower down, from the hill, like Heav'n in wrath,Full store of lightning, and fierce iron hail,To blast the adversary. Let this ground,Like burning Ætna or Vesuvius top,Be wrapt in flame – The word is, Liberty,And Heaven smile on us, in so just a cause.Scene II. Bunkers-HillGardiner [leading up his men to the engagement]Fear not, brave soldiers, tho' their infantry,In deep array, so far out-numbers us.The justness of our cause, will brace each arm,And steel the soul, with fortitude; while they,Whose guilt hangs trembling, on their consciences,Must fail in battle, and receive that death,Which, in high vengeance, we prepare for them.Let then each spirit, to the height, would up,Shew noble vigour, and full force this day.For on the merit, of our swords, is plac'd,The virgin honour, and true character,Of this whole Continent: and one short hour,May give complexion, to the whole event,Fixing the judgment whether as base slaves,We serve these masters, or more nobly live,Free as the breeze, that on the hill-top, plays,With these sweet fields, and tenements, our own.O fellow soldiers, let this battle speak,Dire disappointment, to the insulting foe,Who claim our fair possessions, and set down,These cultur'd-farms, and bowry-hills, and plains,As the rich prize, of certain victory.Shall we, the sons of Massachusetts-Bay,New Hampshire, and Connecticut; shall weFall back, dishonour'd, from our native plains,Mix with the savages, and roam for food,On western mountains, or the desert shores,Of Canada's cold lakes? or state more vile,Sit down, in humble vassalage, contentTo till the ground for these proud conquerors?No, fellow soldiers, let us rise this day,Emancipate, from such ignoble choice.And should the battle ravish our sweet lives,Late time shall give, an ample monument,And bid her worthies, emulate our fame.Scene III. Boston The British Army being repuls'd, Sherwin is dispatch'd to General Gage, for assistanceSherwin, Gage, Burgoyne, and ClintonSherwinOur men advancing, have receiv'd dire loss,In this encounter, and the case demands,In swift crisis, of extremity,A thousand men to reinforce the war.GageDo as you please, Burgoyne, in this affair,I'll hide myself in some deep vault beneath.[Exit.Burgoyne'Tis yours, brave Clinton, to command, these men.Embark them speedily. I see our troops,Stand on the margin of the ebbing flood(The flood affrighted, at the scene it views),And fear, once more, to climb the desp'rate hill,Whence the bold rebel, show'rs destruction down.[Exeunt.Scene IVWarrenMortally wounded, falling on his right knee, covering his breast with his right hand, and supporting himself with his firelock in his leftA 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 meFaint 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, resistTo 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 causeAnd 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 soundOf 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 proofOf 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 troopsHoweCurse on the fortune, of Britannia's arms,That plays the jilt with us. Shall these few menBeat 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 dustOur 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-HillGardiner [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 troopsHoweBut 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'dThe 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-HillGardiner, desperately wounded and borne from the field by two soldiersGardinerA 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 yetI 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.Scene IXPutnam [to the American Army]Swift-rising fame, on early wing, mounts up,To the convexity of bending Heaven,And writes each name, who fought with us this day,In fairest character, amidst the stars.The world shall read it, and still talk of us,Who, far out-number'd, twice drove back the foe,With carnage horrid, murm'ring to their ships.The Ghost of Warren says, enough – I seeOne thousand veterans, mingled with the dust.Now, for our sacred honour, and the wound,Which Gard'ner feels, once more we charge – once more,Dear friends, and fence the obscur'd hillWith hecatombs of slain. Let every pieceFlash, like the fierce-consuming fire of Heaven,And make the smoke, in which they wrap themselves,"A darkness visible." – Now once again,Receive the battle, as a shore of rockThe ocean wave. And if at last we yield,Leave many a death, amidst their hollow ranks,To damp the measure, of their dear-bought joy.Scene X and Last. Bunkers-HillThe American Army overpower'd by numbers are obliged to retreat Enter Howe, Pigot, and Clinton with the British ArmyRichardson [a young officer, on the parapet]The day is ours, huzza, the day is ours,This last attack has forc'd them to retreat.Clinton'Tis true, full victory declares for us,But we have dearly, dearly purchas'd it.Full fifteen hundred of our men lie dead,Who, with their officers, do swell the listOf this day's carnage – On the well-fought hill,Whole ranks cut down, lie struggling with their wounds,Or close their bright eyes, in the shades of night.No wonder! such incessant musketry,And fire of Cannon, from the hill-top pour'd,Seem'd not the agency of mortal men,But Heaven itself, with snares, and vengeance arm'd,T' oppose our gaining it. E'en when was spentTheir ammunition, and fierce Warren slain,Huge stones were hurled from the rocky brow,And war renew'd, by these inveterate;Till Gard'ner wounded, the left wing gave way,And with their shatter'd infantry, the whole,Drawn off by Putnam, to the causeway fled,When from the ships, and batt'ries on the waveThey met deep loss, and strew'd the narrow bridge,With lifeless carcases. Oh, such a day,Since Sodom and Gomorrah sunk in flames,Hath not been heard of by the ear of man,Nor hath an eye beheld its parallel.Lord PigotThe day is ours, but with heart-piercing loss,Of soldiers slain, and gallant officers.Old Abercrombie, on the field lies dead.Pitcairn and Sherwin, in sore battle slain.The gallant reg'ment of Welsh fusileers,To seventeen privates, is this day reduc'd.The grenadiers stand thinly on the hill,Like the tall fir-trees on the blasted heath,Scorch'd by the autumnal burnings, which have rush'd,With wasting fire fierce through its leafy groves.Should ev'ry hill by the rebellious foe,So well defended, cost thus dear to us,Not the united forces of the world,Could master them, and the proud rage subdueOf these Americans. —HoweE'en in an enemy I honour worth,And valour eminent. The vanquish'd foe,In feats of prowess shew their ancestry,And speak their birth legitimate;The sons of Britons, with the genuine flame,Of British heat, and valour in their veins.What pity 'tis, such excellence of mind,Should spend itself, in the fantastic cause,Of wild-fire liberty. – Warren is dead,And lies unburied, on the smoky hill;But with rich honours he shall be inhum'd,To teach our soldiery, how much we love,E'en in a foe, true worth and noble fortitude.Come then, brave soldiers, and take up the dead,Majors, and Col'nels, which are this day slain,And noble Captains of sweet life bereft.Fair flowers shall grow upon their grassy tombs,And fame in tears shall tell their tragedy,To many a widow and soft weeping maid,Or parent woe-ful for an only son,Through mourning Britain, and Hibernia's isle. Enter Burgoyne from BostonOft have I read, in the historic page,And witnessed myself, high scenes in war:But this rude day, unparallel'd in time,Has no competitor – The gazing eye,Of many a soldier, from the chimney-tops,And spires of Boston, witnessed when Howe,With his full thousands, moving up the hill,Receiv'd the onset of the impetuous foe.The hill itself, like Ida's burning mount,When Jove came down, in terrors, to dismayThe Grecian host, enshrouded in thick flames;And round its margin, to the ebbing wave,A town on fire, and rushing from its base,With ruin hideous, and combustion down.Mean time, deep thunder, from the hollow sidesOf the artill'ry, on the hilltop hear'd,With roar of thunder, and loud mortars play'd,From the tall ships, and batt'ries on the wave,Bade yon blue ocean, and wide heaven resound.A scene like which, perhaps, no time shall know,Till Heav'n with final ruin fires the ball,Burns up the cities, and the works of men,And wraps the mountains in one gen'ral blaze.[Exeunt.The EndEPILOGUE
Written by a Gentleman of the Army Supposed to be spoken, immediately after the Battle; by Lieutenant Colonel Webb, Aide-de-camp to General PutnamThe field is theirs, but dearly was it bought,Thus long defended and severely fought.Now pale-fac'd death sits brooding o'er the strand,And views the carnage of his ruthless hand.But why my heart this deep unbidden sigh,Why steals the tear, soft trickling from the eye?Is Freedom master'd by our late defeat,Or Honour wounded by a brave retreat?'Tis nature dictates; and in pride's despite,I mourn my brethren slaughter'd in the fight.Th' insulting foe now revels o'er the ground,Yet flush'd with victory, they feel the wound.Embru'd in gore, they bleed from ev'ry part,And deep wounds rankle at Britannia's heart.O fatal conquest! Speak thou crimson'd plain,Now press'd beneath the weight of hundreds slain!There heaps of British youth promiscuous lie,Here, murder'd Freemen catch the wand'ring eye.Observe yon stripling bath'd in purple gore,He bleeds for Freedom on his native shore.His livid eyes in drear convulsions roll,While from his wounds escapes the flutt'ring soul,Breathless and naked on th' ensanguin'd plain,Midst friends and brothers, sons and fathers slain.No pitying hand his languid eyes to close,He breathes his last amidst insulting foes;His body plunder'd, massacred, abus'd;By Christians – Christian fun'ral rites refus'd —Thrown as a carrion in the public way,To Dogs, to Britons, and to Birds a prey.Enwrapt in sulph'rous flame and clouds of smoke,Brave Gard'ner sinks beneath the deadly stroke,And Warren bleeds to grace the bloody strife,And for his injur'd country gives his life.Yet while his mighty soul ascends the skies,On earth his blood for ten-fold vengeance cries.Great spirit rest – by Heaven it is decreed,Thy murd'ring tyrants by the sword shall bleed.E'en racks and gibbets would but consecrate,And death repeated be too kind a fate.The sword is drawn, in peace no more to rest,Till justice bathes it in some tyrant's breast.Honour my weapon with the glorious task,And let me stab, 'tis all the boon I ask.Kind pow'rs, beneath your all-protecting shield,I now unsheathe my sword, and take the fieldSure of success, with this sweet comfort giv'n,Who fights for Freedom, – fights the cause of Heav'n.AN ODE