From clouds of smoke, and flames that round me glow, To you, dear Clinton, I disclose my woe: Here cannons flash, bombs glance, and bullets fly; Not Arnold's[61] self endures such misery. Was I foredoomed in tortures[62] to expire, Hurled to perdition in a blaze of fire? With these blue flames can mortal man contend-- What arms can aid me, or what walls defend? Even to these gates last night a phantom strode, And hailed me trembling to his dark abode: Aghast I stood, struck motionless and dumb, Seized with the horrors of the world to come. Were but my power as mighty as my rage, Far different battles would Cornwallis wage; Beneath his sword yon' threat'ning hosts should groan, The earth would quake with thunders all his own. O crocodile! had I thy flinty hide, Swords to defy, and glance the balls aside, By my own prowess would I rout the foe, With my own javelin would I work their woe-- But fates averse, by heaven's supreme decree, Nile's serpent formed more excellent than me. Has heaven, in secret, for some crime decreed That I should suffer, and my soldiers bleed? Or is it by the jealous powers concealed, That I must bend, and they ignobly yield? Ah! no--the thought o'erwhelms my soul with grief: Come, bold Sir Harry, come to my relief; Come, thou brave man, whom rebels Tombstone call, But Britons, Graves[63]--come Digby, devil and all; Come, princely William, with thy potent aid, Can George's blood by Frenchmen be dismayed? From a king's uncle once Scotch rebels run, And shall not these be routed by a son? Come with your ships to this disastrous shore, Come--or I sink--and sink to rise no more; By every motive that can sway the brave Haste, and my feeble, fainting army save; Come, and lost empire o'er the deep regain, Chastise these upstarts that usurp the main; I see their first rates to the charge advance, I see lost _Iris_ wear the flags of France; There a strict rule the wakeful Frenchman keeps; There, on no bed of down, Lord Rawdon sleeps! Tired with long acting on this bloody stage, Sick of the follies of a wrangling age, Come with your fleet, and help me to retire To Britain's coast, the land of my desire-- For, me the foe their certain captive deem, And every trifler[64] takes me for his theme-- Long, much too long in this hard service tried, Bespattered still, be-deviled, and belied; With the first chance that favouring fortune sends I fly, converted, from this land of fiends; Convinced, for me, she has no gems in store, Nor leaves one triumph, even to hope for more. [60] First published in the _Freeman's Journal_, October 17, 1781, two days before the final surrender of Cornwallis at Yorktown. "On the seventeenth [of September] Cornwallis reported to Clinton: 'This place is in no state of defence. If you cannot relieve me very soon, you must be prepared to hear the worst.'"--_Bancroft._