Destroy, distress, and triumph o'er mankind!-- Tis not our peace this murdering hand restrains, The want of power is made the monster's chains; 60 Compassion is a stranger to his heart, Or if it came, he bade the guest depart; The melting tear, the sympathising groan Were never yet to Gage or Jefferies[A] known; The seas of blood his heart fore-dooms to spill 65 Is but a dying serpent's rage to kill. What power shall drive these vipers from our shore, These monsters swoln with carnage, death, and gore! Twelve was the hour--congenial darkness reigned, And no bright star a mimic day-light feigned-- 70 First, Gage we saw--a crimson chair of state Received the honour of his Honour's weight; This man of straw the regal purple bound, But dullness, deepest dullness, hovered round. Next Graves, who wields the trident of the brine, 75 The tall arch-captain of the embattled line, All gloomy sate--mumbling of flame and fire, Balls, cannon, ships, and all their damned attire; Well pleased to live in never-ending hum, But empty as the interior of his drum. 80 Hard by, Burgoyne assumes an ample space, And seemed to meditate with studious face, As if again he wished our world to see Long, dull, dry letters, writ to General Lee-- Huge scrawls of words through endless circuits drawn 85 Unmeaning as the errand he's upon.-- Is he to conquer--he subdue our land?-- This buckram hero, with his lady's hand? By Cesars to be vanquished is a curse, But by a scribbling fop--by heaven, is worse![88] 90 Lord Piercy seemed to snore--but may the Muse This ill-timed snoring to the peer excuse; Tired was the long boy of his toilsome day, Full fifteen miles he fled--a tedious way; How could he then the dews of Somnus shun, 95 Perhaps not used to walk--much less to run. Red-faced as suns, when sinking to repose, Reclined the infernal captain of the _Rose_,[B] In fame's proud temple aiming for a niche, With those who find her at the cannon's breech; 100 Skilled to direct the cannonading shot, No Turkish rover half so murdering hot, Pleased with base vengeance on defenceless towns, His heart was malice--but his words were, Zounds! Howe, vexed to see his starving army's doom, 105 In prayer, besought the skies for elbow room--[89] Small was his stock, and theirs, of heavenly grace, Yet just enough to ask a larger place.-- He cursed the brainless minister that planned His bootless errand to this hostile land, 110 But, awed by Gage, his bursting wrath recoiled, And in his inmost bosom doubly boiled. These, chief of all the tyrant-serving train, Exalted sate--the rest (a pensioned clan), A sample of the multitude that wait, 115