Camp'd on a hundred hills, and trench'd in form, Burgoyne's long legions view the gathering storm; Uncounted nations round their general stand, And wait the signal from his guiding hand. Canadia crowds her Gallic colons there, Ontario's yelling tribes torment the air, Wild Huron sends his lurking hordes from far, Insidious Mohawk swells the woodland war; Scalpers and ax-men rush from Erie's shore, And Iroquois augments the war whoop roar; While all his ancient troops his train supply, Half Europe's banners waving thro the sky; Deep squadron'd horse support his endless flanks, And park'd artillery frowns behind the ranks. Flush'd with the conquest of a thousand fields, And rich with spoils that all the region yields, They burn with zeal to close the long campaign, And crush Columbia on this final plain. His fellow chiefs inhale the hero's flame, Nerves of his arm and partners in his fame: Phillips, with treasured thunders poised and wheel'd In brazen tubes, prepares to rake the field; The trench-tops darken with the sable rows, And, tipt with fire, the waving match-rope glows. There gallant Reidesel in German guise, And Specht and Breyman, prompt for action, rise; His savage hordes the murderous Johnson leads, Files thro the woods and treads the tangled weeds, Shuns open combat, teaches where to run, Skulk, couch the ambush, aim the hunter's gun, Whirl the sly tomahawk, the war whoop sing, Divide the spoils and pack the scalps they bring. Frazer in quest of glory seeks the field;-- False glare of glory, what hast thou to yield? How long, deluding phantom, wilt thou blind, Mislead, debase, unhumanize mankind? Bid the bold youth, his headlong sword who draws, Heed not the object, nor inquire the cause; But seek adventuring, like an errant knight, Wars not his own, gratuitous in fight, Greet the gored field, then plunging thro the fire, Mow down his men, with stupid pride expire, Shed from his closing eyes the finish'd flame, And ask, for all his crimes, a deathless name? And when shall solid glory, pure and bright, Alone inspire us, and our deeds requite? When shall the applause of men their chiefs pursue In just proportion to the good they do, On virtue's base erect the shrine of fame, Define her empire, and her code proclaim? Unhappy Frazer! little hast thou weigh'd The crirneful cause thy valor comes to aid. Far from thy native land, thy sire, thy wife, Love's lisping race that cling about thy life, Thy soul beats high, thy thoughts expanding roam On battles past, and laurels yet to come: Alas, what laurels? where the lasting gain? A pompous funeral on a desert plain! The cannon's roar, the muffled drums proclaim, In one short blast, thy momentary fame, And some war minister per-hazard reads In what far field the tool of placemen bleeds.