Provincial Camp; meets the Genius of America again on the way and resigns the mantle, whereby he again becomes visible; arrives at the camp. View of the Rifle-men, Virginians, &c. Speech of an American soldier; his determined resolution, which is that of all America, to defend our rights and privileges. Grief that he must fight against our own nation. Mention of Carleton and Johnson; concludes with a melancholy recital of our present distractions, and sincere hope of reconcilation with Great Britain before a wicked ministry render it too late. Conclusion. How curs'd the man whom fate's unhappy doom Confines, unluckly, to his native home, How doubly curs'd by cross grain'd stars is he, Whom fate ties down, tho' struggling to be free! Heaven gave to man this vast extended round. No climes confine him and no oceans bound; Heaven gave him forest, mountain, vale and plain, And bade him vanquish, if he could, the main: Then, miser, hoard and heap thy riches still, View the sun rise above thy well known hill, Vile as the swine, enjoy thy gloomy den, Sweat in the compass of a squalid pen, 'Till sick of life, on terms with death agree, And leave thy fortune, not thy heart, to me. So mus'd the bard who this rough verse indites, Asserting freedom, and his country's rights: Nor mus'd in vain; the fruitful musings brought To practice what in theory he thought; And gave desire, a keen desire, to roam A hundred or two hundred leagues from home. Where should he go? The eastern hills reply, Come, pensive traveller, with thy tearful eye, Come, and fair Boston from our summit see, No city sits so widow-like as she; Her trading navies spread their sails no more, Remotest nations cease to seek her shore, Deep are her weeds--in darkest sable clad, O come and view the Queen of all that's sad, Long are her nights, that yield no chearful sound, Like endless nights in tombs below the ground, Low burns her lamp before th' insulting rout; See, the lamp dies, and every light goes out! O Britain come, and, if you can, relent This rage, that better might on Spain be spent. Touch'd with the mountain's melancholy prayer (Perhaps a mountain or Dame Fancy there) Could I refuse, since mutual grief endears, To seek New Albion's Lady all in tears? But doubts perplexing hover'd o'er my mind, Whether to chuse the aid of horse or wind; That suits the best with bards of place and state, This must be needy Rhymers compensate, Since Jove his ancient bounty has deny'd, And grants no modern Pegasus to ride. Dark was the night, the winds tempestuous roar'd From western skies, and warn'd us all aboard; Spread were the sails, the nimble vessel flies O'er Neptune's bosom and reflected skies; Nor halt I here to tell you how she roves O'er Tython's chambers and his coral groves. Let some prose wand'rer long-sun journals keep,