"Oh! graceful Priestess at the fane of Truth, "Friend of my Soul! and Guardian of my Youth! "Skill'd to convert the duty to the choice, "My gentle Mother!--in whose melting voice "The virtuous precept, that perpetual flow'd, "With music warbled, and with beauty glow'd, "Thy Tears!--ah Heav'n!--not drops of molten lead, "Pour'd on thy hapless Son's devoted head, "With keener smart had each sensation torn!-- "They wake the nerve where agonies are born! "But oh! restrain me not!--thy tender strife, "What wou'd it save?--alas!--thy André's life! "Oh! what a weary pilgrimage 'twill prove "Strew'd with the thorns of disappointed Love! "Ne'er can he break the charm, whose fond controul, "By habit rooted, lords it o'er his soul, "If here he languish in inglorious ease, "Where Science palls, and Pleasures cease to please. "'Tis Glory only, with her potent ray, "Can chace the clouds that darken all his way. "Then dry those pearly drops that wildly flow, "Nor snatch the laurel from my youthful brow!-- "The Rebel Standard blazes to the noon! "And Glory's path is bright before thy Son! "Then join thy voice! and thou with Heav'n ordain "While André lives, he may not live in vain!" He says!--and sighing seeks the busy strand, Where anchor'd Navies wait the wish'd command. To the full gale the nearer billows roar, And proudly lash the circumscribing shore; While furious on the craggy coast they rave, All calm and lovely rolls the distant wave; For onward, as th' unbounded waters spread, Deep sink the rocks in their capacious bed, And all their pointed terror's utmost force But gently interrupts the billow's course. So on his present hour rude Passion preys! So smooth the prospect of his future days! Unconscious of the Storm, that grimly sleeps, To wreck its fury on th' unshelter'd Deeps! Now yielding Waves divide before the prow, The white sails bend, the streaming pennants glow; And swiftly waft him to the Western plain, Where fierce Bellona rages o'er the slain. Firm in their strength, opposing Legions stand, Prepar'd to drench with blood the thirsty Land. Now Carnage hurls her flaming bolts afar, And Desolation groans amid the War. As bleed the Valiant, and the Mighty yield, Death stalks, the only Victor, o'er the field. Foremost in all the horrors of the day, Impetuous André[78] leads the glorious way; Till, rashly bold, by numbers forc'd to yield, They drag him captive from the long-fought field.-- Around the Hero crowd th' exulting Bands, And seize the spoils of war with bloody hands, Snatch the dark plumage from his awful crest, And tear the golden crescent from his breast; The sword, the tube, that wings the death from far, And all the fatal implements of War!