Feeds their full camp and shades their anchored fleet;
Oswego’s rampart frowns athwart his flood,
And wild Ontario swells beneath his load.
And now an equal host from Albion’s strand
Arrives to aid her young colonial band.
They join their force and tow’rd the falling day
Impetuous Braddock leads their hasty way;
O’er Allegany heights, like streams of fire,
The red flags wave and glittering arms aspire
To meet the savage hordes, who there advance
Their skulking files to join the arms of France.
Where, old as earth, yet still unstain’d with blood,
Monongahela roll’d his careless flood,
Flankt with his mantling groves the fountful hills,
Drain’d the vast region through his thousand rills,
Lured o’er his lawns the buffle herds, and spread
For all his fowls his piscatory glade;
But now perceives, with hostile flag unfurl’d,
A Gallic fortress awe the western world;
There Braddock bends his march; the troops within
Behold their danger and the fire begin.
Forth bursting from the gates they rush amain,
Front, flank and charge the fast approaching train;
The batteries blaze, the leaden volleys pour,
The vales, the streams, the solid mountains roar;
Clouds of convolving smoke the welkin spread,
The champaign shrouding in sulphureous shade.
Lost in the rocking thunder’s loud career,
No shouts nor groans invade the Patriarch’s ear,
Nor valorous feats are seen nor flight nor fall,
But one broad burst of darkness buries all.
Till chased by rising winds the smoke withdrew,
And the wide slaughter open’d on his view.
He saw the British leader borne afar
In dust and gore, beyond the wings of war;
And while delirious panic seized his host,
Their flags, their arms in wild confusion tost,
Bold in the midst a youthful warrior strode
And tower’d undaunted o’er the field of blood;
He checks the shameful rout, with vengeance burns,
And the pale Britons brighten where he turns.
So, when thick vapors veil the nightly sky
The starry host in half-seen lustre fly,
Till phosphor rises o’er the twinkling crowd
And gives new splendor through his parting cloud.
Swift on a fiery steed the stripling rose,
Form’d the light files to pierce the line of foes;
Then waved his gleamy sword that flasht the day,
And through the Gallic legions hew’d his way:
His troops press forward like a loose-broke flood,
Sweep ranks away and smear their paths in blood;
The hovering foes pursue the combat far
And shower their balls along the flying war;
When the new leader turns his single force,
Points the flight forward, speeds his backward course;
The French recoiling half their victory yield,
And the glad Britons quit the fatal field.
These deathful deeds as great Columbus eyed,
With anxious tone he thus addrest the Guide:
Why combat here these transatlantic bands
And strow their corses through thy pathless lands?
Can Europe’s realms, the seat of endless strife,
Afford no trophies for the waste of life?
Can monarchs there no proud applauses gain,
No living laurel for their people slain?
Nor Belgia’s plains, so fertile made with gore,
Hide heroes’ bones nor feast the vultures more?
Will Rhine no longer cleanse the crimson stain,
Nor Danube bear their bodies to the main,
That infant empires here the shock must feel,
And these pure streams with foreign carnage swell?
But who that chief? his name, his nation say,
Whose lifeblood seems his follies to repay;
And who the youth, that from the combat lost
Springs up and saves the remnant of his host?
The Power replied: Each age successive brings
Their varying views to earth’s contentious kings;
Here roll the years when Albion’s parent hand,
In aid of thy brave children, guards the land;
That growing states their veteran force may train,
A nobler prize in later fields to gain;
In fields where Albion’s self shall turn their foe,
Spread broader sails and aim a deadlier blow,
Recross in evil hour the astonisht wave,
Her own brave sons to ravage and enslave.
But here she combats with the powers of Gaul;
Here her bold Braddock finds his destined fall;
Thy Washington in that young martial frame
From yon lost field begins a life of fame.
’Tis he, in future straits with loftier stride,
The colon states to sovereign rule shall guide;
When, prest by wrongs, their own full force they find,
To wield the sword for man, and bulwark humankind.
The Seraph spoke; when through the purpled air
The northern armies spread the flames of war.
Swift o’er the lake, to Crownpoint’s fortful strand
Rash Abercrombie leads his headlong band
To fierce unequal fight; the batteries roar,
Shield the strong foes and rake the banner’d shore;
Britannia’s sons again the contest yield;
Again proud Gaul triumphant sweeps the field.
But Amherst quick renews the raging toil
And drives wide hosting o’er Acadia’s isle;
Young Wolfe beside him points the lifted lance,
The boast of Britain and the scourge of France.
The tide of victory here the heroes turn
And Gallic navies in their harbors burn;
High flame the ships, the billows swell with gore,
And the red standard shades the conquer’d shore.
Wolfe, now detacht and bent on bolder deeds,
A sail-borne host up sealike Lawrence leads,
Stems the long lessening tide; till Abraham’s height
And famed Quebec rise frowning into sight,
Swift bounding on the bank, the foe they claim,
Climb the tall mountain, like a rolling flame,
Push wide their wings high bannering bright the air
And move to fight as comets cope in war.
The smoke falls folding through the downward sky
And shrouds the mountain from the patriarch’s eye;
While on the towering top, in glare of day,
The flashing swords in fiery arches play.
As on a side-seen storm, adistance driven,
The flames fork round the semivault of heaven,
Thick thunders roll, descending torrents flow,
Dash down the clouds and whelm the hills below;
Or as on plains of light when Michael strove,
The swords of cherubim to combat move,
Ten thousand fiery forms together fray
And flash new lightning on empyreal day.
Long raged promiscuous combat, half conceal’d,
When sudden parle suspended all the field;
Then roar the shouts, the smoke forsakes the plain,
And the huge hill is topt with heaps of slain.
Stretch’d high in air Britannia’s standard waved
And good Columbus hail’d his country saved;
While calm and silent, where the ranks retire,
He saw brave Wolfe in victory’s arms expire.
So the pale moon, when morning beams arise,
Veils her lone visage in her midway skies;
She needs no longer drive the shades away,
Nor waits to view the glories of the day.
Again the towns aspire; the cultured field
And crowded mart their copious treasures yield;
Back to his plow the colon soldier moves,
And songs of triumph fill the warbling groves,
The conscious flocks, returning joys that share,
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