What country on earth, then, did ever give birth To such a magnanimous saint? His acts far excel all that history tell, And language too feeble to paint, my brave boys. 21. Now, to finish my song, a full flowing bowl I'll quaff, and sing all the long day, And with punch and wine paint my cheeks for my saint, And hail ev'ry First of sweet _May_, my brave boys. DICK. What a seraphic voice! how it enlivens my soul! Come away, away, Roger, the moments are precious. [_Exeunt DICK and ROGER._ SCENE VII. _In a chamber, near Boston, the morning after the battle of Bunkers-Hill._ CLARISSA. How lovely is this new-born day!--The sun rises with uncommon radiance after the most gloomy night my wearied eyes ever knew.--The voice of slumber was not heard--the angel of sleep was fled--and the awful whispers of solemnity and silence prevented my eye-lids from closing.--No wonder--the terrors and ideas of yesterday--such a scene of war--of tumult--hurry and hubbub--of horror and destruction--the direful noise of conflict--the dismal hissing of iron shot in volleys flying--such bellowing of mortars--such thund'ring of cannon--such roaring of musketry--and such clashing of swords and bayonets--such cries of the wounded--and such streams of blood--such a noise and crush of houses, steeples, and whole streets of desolate Charlestown falling--pillars of fire, and the convulsed vortex of fiery flakes, rolling in flaming wreaths in the air, in dreadful combustion, seemed as tho' the elements and whole earth were envelop'd in one general, eternal conflagration and total ruin, and intermingled with black smoke, ascending, on the wings of mourning, up to Heaven, seemed piteously to implore the Almighty interposition to put a stop to such devastation, lest the whole earth should be unpeopled in the unnatural conflict--Too, too much for female heroism to dwell upon--But what are all those to the terrors that filled my affrighted imagination the last night?--Dreams--fancies--evil bodings--shadows, phantoms and ghastly visions continually hovering around my pillow, goading and harrowing my soul with the most terrific appearances, not imaginary, but real--Am I awake?--Where are the British murderers?--where's my husband?--my son?--my brother?--Something more than human tells me all is not well: If they are among the slain, 'tis impossible.--I--Oh! [_She cries._] _Enter a NEIGHBOUR_ [_a spectator of the battle_]. NEIGHBOUR. Madam, grieve not so much. CLARISSA. Am I wont to grieve without a cause? Wou'd to God I did;--mock me not--What voice is that? methinks I know it--some angel sent to comfort me?--welcome then. [_She turns about._] Oh, my Neighbour, is it you? My friend, I have need of comfort. Hast thou any for me?--say--will you not speak? Where's my husband?--my son?--my brother? Hast thou seen them since the battle? Oh! bring me not unwelcome tidings! [_Cries._]