[237] The _Royal George_, 108 guns, while being refitted at Spithead, August 29, 1782, was heeled over too far by her crew, causing her suddenly to sink. Admiral Kempenfelt and nearly 800 men perished in this disaster. A NEW-YORK TORY'S EPISTLE[238] To one of his Friends in Pennsylvania.--Written previous to his Departure for Nova Scotia May, 1783 Dark glooms the day that sees me leave this shore, To which fate whispers I must come no more: From civil broils what dire disasters flow-- Those broils condemn me to a land of woe Where barren pine trees shade the dreary steep, Frown o'er the soil or murmur to the deep, Where sullen fogs their heavy wings expand, And nine months' winter chills the dismal land! Could no kind stars have mark'd a different way, Stars that presided on my natal day?-- Why is not man endued with power to know The ends and upshots of events below? Why did not heaven (some other gift deny'd) Teach me to take the true-born Buckskin side, Show me the balance of the wavering fates And fortune smiling on these new-born States! Friend of my heart!--my refuge and relief, Who help'd me on through seven long years of grief, Whose better genius taught you to remain In the soft quiet of your rural reign, Who still despised the Rebels and their cause, And, while you paid the taxes, damn'd their laws, And wisely stood spectator of the fray, Nor trusted George, whate'er he chose to say; Thrice happy thou, who wore a double face, And as the balance turn'd could each embrace; Too happy Janus! had I shar'd thy art, To speak a language foreign to my heart, And stoop'd from pomp and dreams of regal state, To court the friendship of the men I hate, These strains of woe had not been penn'd to-day, Nor I to foreign climes been forc'd away: Ah! George--that name provokes my keenest rage, Did he not swear, and promise, and engage His loyal sons to nurture and defend, To be their God, their father and their friend-- Yet basely quits us on a hostile coast, And leaves us wretched where we need him most: His is the part to promise and deceive, By him we wander and by him we grieve; Since the first day that these dissentions grew, When Gage to Boston brought his blackguard crew,[239] From place to place we urge our vagrant flight To follow still this vapour of the night, From town to town have run our various race, And acted all that's mean and all that's base-- Yes--from that day until this hour we roam, Vagrants forever from our native home! And yet, perhaps, fate sees the golden hour When happier hands shall crush rebellious power, When hostile tribes their plighted faith shall own And swear subjection to the British throne, When George the Fourth shall their petitions spurn, And banish'd Tories to their fields return. From dreams of conquest, worlds and empires won Britain awaking, mourns her setting sun,