This mighty Era big with dread alarms, Aloud calls each AMERICAN to arms. Let ev'ry Breast with martial ardour glow, Nor dread to meet the proud usurping foe. What tho' our bodies feel an earthly chain, Still the free soul, unblemish'd and serene Enjoys a mental LIBERTY,--a charm, Beyond the power of fate itself to harm. Should vict'ry crown us in the doubtful strife-- Eternal honours mark the hero's life. Should Wounds and slaughter be our hapless doom-- Unfading laurels deck the Martyr's Tomb: A sure reward awaits his soul on high, On earth his memory shall never die, For when we read the fatal story o'er, One tear shall drop for him who is--no more, Who nobly struggled to support our laws, And bravely fell in freedom's sacred cause. Let virtue fire us to the martial deed; We fight to conquer and we dare to bleed: Witness ye fathers! whose protracted time, Fruitful of story, chronicles the clime. These howling deserts, hospitably tame, Erst snatch'd you martyrs, from the hungry flame; 'Twas Heav'n's own cause, beneath whose shelt'ring power, Ye grew the wonder of this present hour-- The task--be ours with unremitted toil, } To guard the rights of this dear-purchas'd soil,} From Royal plund'rers, greedy of our spoil, } Who come resolv'd to murder and enslave, To shackle FREEMEN and to rob the brave. The loud mouth'd cannon threaten from afar, Be this our comfort in the storm of war-- Who fights, to take our liberty away, Dead-hearted fights, and falls an easy prey. Then, on my brethren to the embattl'd plain, Who shrinks with fear, anticipates a chain. DRAMATIS PERSONAE WARREN } PUTNAM } _American Officers._ GARDINER } GAGE } HOWE } BURGOYNE } _British Officers._ CLINTON } LORD PIGOT } SHERWIN, _Aide-de-camp to General Howe._ Soldiers, &c. THE BATTLE OF BUNKERS-HILL ACT I. SCENE I. _Camp at Cambridge._ _Enter WARREN, PUTNAM, and GARDINER._ WARREN. Why thus, brave Putnam, shall we still encamp Inactive here; and with this gentle flood, By Cambridge murmuring, mix briny tears? Salt tears of grief by many a parent shed, For sons detain'd, and tender innocents In yon fair City, famishing for bread; For not fond mothers or their weeping babes-- Can move the hard heart of relentless Gage. Perfidious man! Who pledg'd his oath so late, And word of honour to those patriots Yet in his power, that yielding him their arms, They should receive permission to depart, And join once more their valiant countrymen; But now detains as hostages these men, In low damp dungeons, and in gaols chain'd down While grief and famine on their vitals prey. Say, noble Putnam, shall we hear of this, And let our idle swords rust in the sheath, While slaves of Royal Power impeach our worth As vain, and call our patience cowardice? PUTNAM.