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The unfortunate HERO;
A PINDARIC ODE.
Occasion'd by the lamented Fate of Viscount George Augustus Howe, Baron of Clenawley, &c.
Who was Slain in the Battle near Carillon, July the 6th, 1758.
How are the mighty fall'n!
DAVID.
Together with an ODE, ON THE Reduction of LOUISBOURG, July 27, 1758.
Imprimis venerare Deum.—
VIRG.
Qui terram inertem, qui mare temperat
Ventosum, et Urbes, regnaque tristia,
Divosque, mortalesque turmas
Imperio regit unus aequo.
HORACE:
[...]
VIRG.
NEW-YORK: Printed by Parker and Weyman, 1758.
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The Unfortunate HERO; An ODE.
I.
COME, weeping Muse, descend and bring
Thy well-known Lute, thy doleful Notes renew,
*
With trembling hand strike each complaining String,
(Thy drooping Brows crown'd with funereal Yew)
And in soft plaintive Numbers sing
The hapless Fortune of the Brave,
The cruel Triumphs of the Grave,
And be the Tribute paid,
The Tribute justly due
To HOWE's illustrious Shade:
With pensive Strains attend his Herse,
His noble God-like Deeds rehearse,
And crown his Mem'ry with a grateful Verse.
[Page 4]
II.
Come all ye gen'rous Souls that know,
What tis to feel a patriot Woe,
Whose Countries Losses make your Sorrows rise,
Whose Bosoms bleed when Valour dies,
Deplore the Hero's Fate;
And while the Muse complains
And in funereal Strains
Describes a Loss so formidably great,
Lay ev'ry smiling Joy aside,
Let undissembled Sorrows flow,
And in a briny Tide
Give your soft Passions vent, and all disolve in Woe.
III.
From distant Lands the Hero came,
His heart all glowing with a sacred Flame
By
Britain's Genius fir'd,
By no mean mercenary Hopes inspir'd,
Nor in pursuit of Fame;
But bent on a disinterested Aim,
A noble Aim, divinely great,
To save our sinking Country from the Jaws of Fate.
Lo! He spontaneous leaves
The Joys of peaceful Life,
To try the Chance of martial Strife,
Intrepid braves
The Winds and Waves,
And all the Dangers of the raging Main;
Danger and Toil in vain oppose his Way,
Our northern Regions to his View display
Then frightful Wilds in vain;
Their frightful Wilds beheld him nobly dare,
Bound forth impetuous to the War,
Nor dread the awful Horrors of the wild Campaign.
[Page 5]
IV.
Noble without a Thought of Pride,
And great without Disdain,
HOWE well cou'd lay the Pomp of Life aside
(When for Deliverance his Country sigh'd)
And fare as meanly as the rural Swain;
Tho' bred in all the Elegance of Taste,
Inspir'd with martial Rage,
Th' heroick Champion well disdain'd
Th' unmanly Softness of the Age,
Nor wou'd he be a Guest
Where fulsome Lux'ry reign'd:
The
British Int'rest all his Care,
His Patriot Soul
Cou'd well controul
The Appetites of youthful Blood;
Content with Soldier's Fare,
He liv'd on simple Food,
Refus'd the Pleasures of the sparkling Bowl,
And quench'd his Thirst in the pure chrystal Flood.
V.
Vice in our Army long had held
Her arbitary Reign,
And Guilt enormous with a fouler Stain
Defil'd the Martial Field.
Than crimson Seas of Blood, or Myriads of Slain.
Virtue, coelestial Maid,
Long, long conceal'd her Head;
Till, shock'd by Crimes of monstrous Size,
The blushing Goddess, forc'd to yield,
Indignant left the guilty Field,
And fled, a
[...]erst
Astrea, to her native Skies.
[Page 6]But when kind Providence from far
Call'd HOWE, her Vot'ry, to the Field of War,
There she resum'd her former Throne,
There, in the midst of Arms,
And with peculiar Charms
The lovely Goddess shone,
And clad the fav'rite Youth in glories like her own.
The fav'rite Youth himself obey'd
The Dictates of the heav'nly Maid,
And taught his Legions to confess her Sway;
But Vice, infernal Monster, saw
Her Empire overthrown,
And, by his great Example struck with Awe,
Or trembling at his Frown,
Forsook the hallow'd Camp, or shunn'd the Face of Day.
VI.
Others cou'd plan the future War,
Threaten Destruction from afar,
And make a mighty show;
Vainglorious count a num'rous Host,
Of mere ideal Vict'ries boast,
And triumph o'er the yet unconquer'd Foe:
Modest tho' valiant, and tho' youthful wise,
Young HOWE cou'd shine in Council too;
But he had Hands as well as Voice,
While others talk'd with mighty Noise,
The active HOWE was form'd to DO.
How glow'd with Love and Wonder every Heart,
Ye Sons of Battle, say,
When in each Toil he bore a Part,
In ev'ry Danger led the Way!
How did his great Example fire each Breast,
When he abridg'd his Hours of Rest,
And in continual Labours worried out the Day!
[Page 7]Such were the Warriors of the Days of old,
Such
Cincinnatus, such
Camillus bold,
And the great
Scipio's rose;
†
Heroes like these extensive Vengeance hurl'd
On
Rome's perfidious Foes,
E'er Luxuries pernicious Charms
Had spoil'd the Temper of her Arms;
By Thunderbolts like these she once subdu'd the World.
VII.
And so perhaps hadst Thou,
If Heav'n had deign'd to spare
Thy useful Life, illustrious HOWE!
Oblig'd
Canadian Force to bow,
And put a period to the doubtful War:
We fondly hop'd to see thy Sword
Deal sudden Vengeance on the Foe,
Their meritorious Doom,
By some important Blow
We hop'd to see our Rights restor'd,
And shout thee living and victorious home;
But ah! our pleasing Dreams are o'er,
Our flatt'ring Prospects are no more,
Our Hopes are buried in thy Grave,
Where is the Man, lamented HOWE!
Like thee to head our Army now,
So active and so brave?
VIII.
But check thy passions, Muse, and tell
How clos'd a Life employ'd so well,
How brave the Hero fought and how divine he fell.—
[Page 8]Behold! with what a noble Mien,
All animated yet serene.
He meets the ambush'd Foe!
Warm in his Countries Cause,
And bold as the fam'd
Marlbro was,
His Sword the ardent Warrior draws,
And aims the fatal Blow.
Intrepid lo! he stands,
And firm maintains his Ground,
Inspiring with new Life his martial Bands,
And scatt'ring Fate around;
Till the dire Ball, aim'd with delib'rate Art,
By some base Villain guiltier than the rest,
Impetuous penetrates his Breast,
And lodges in his Heart:
Expiring with the Wound,
Down sinks the Hero to the Ground,
And as he falls he cries,
"Fight on my Friends, and trust the Skies,
"Nor let your Courage languish, tho' your Leader dies;
"No; save your Country, and revenge my Death."—
He can no more.—Fate stops his Breath,
Eternal Slumbers seal his Eyes,
His Spirit issues in a Flood of Gore,
And HOWE, the great, the good, the valiant, is no more.
IX.
Curse on the Wretch, that aim'd the fatal Ball!
And can ye, Britons, see your Leader fall
Alone▪ and fall in vain?
No, give the Wretch the Fate he gave,
Let him not triumph o'er the Brave;
But feel just Vengeance for an Hero slain.—
[Page 9]Tis done—the righteous Skies
Forbid the rising Boast,
From the surrounding Host
His Crime recoils upon his Head,
The deathful Lead vindictive flies,
Quick stops his guilty Breath,
Avenges HOWE's untimely Death,
And down the Villain drops, to wait upon his Shade.
X.
But Thee, dear Youth, long shall thy Country mourn,
With grateful Tears bedew thy Dust,
And future Ages, to thy Mem'ry just,
Shall dress with Glory thy distinguish'd Urn:
Long as these Regions know th' insulting
Gaul,
America shall still deplore thy Fall;
And while th' historic Page
Transmits to each succeeding Age
B—'s Disgrace and A—'s Shame,
To future Times,
And distant Climes,
Loud shall resound thy Name,
And shine with Honour in the Rolls of Fame.
In the Advertisement, in the 19th Line, read, (which he is not ignorant of)
[Page 10]
An ODE, On the Surrender of Louisbourg, July 27, 1758.
I.
TIS done, tis done,
The Day is won,
At length the destin'd Blow is giv'n;
Tho' long our Woes,
And strong our Foes,
Our Cause is still the Care of Heav'n.
II.
What tho' the Field
Oft saw us yield.
The Palm to the victorious Foe,
And tell-tale Fame
Reveal'd our Shame,
When Waves can roll or Winds can blow?
III.
Our ardent Cries
Have reach'd the Skies,
And gracious Heav'n at length repays
Our martial Toils,
Propitious smiles,
And bids us hope for happier Days.
IV.
Ye Sons of Pride!
No more deride,
Nor vainly glory in your Towr's;
For to your Woe,
Ye Vaunters know,
Your boasted
Louisbourg is ours:
V.
Ye Slaves forbear,
Nor longer dare,
With your bold Taunts insult the Brave;
[Page 11]Hear to your Shame,
The Voice of Fame,
"
France in her turn has fed the Grave.
VI.
No more forlorn,
Ye
Britons, mourn
No more regret our late Alarms;
In sprightly Strains,
Ye jovial Swains,
Now sing the Power of
British Arms.
VII.
No more, no more,
As heretofore,
Shall
Gallia uncontroul'd destroy;
Then wipe your Tears,
Dismiss your Fears,
And give your smiling Country Joy.
VIII.
With Heart and Voice,
Let all rejoice,
And ev'ry loyal
British Tongue
In Concert join
Its Shouts with mine,
And aid the Triumphs of my Song.
IX.
In thankful Lays,
First sing his Praise,
Who deigns to make our Land his Care,
Whole Breath inspires
Heroick Fires,
The Lord of Hosts the GOD of War.
X.
He fires the Zeal
Which Patriots seal,
'Tis He that makes our Sages wise;
[...] feels the Flame,
Pursues his Aim,
And
[...] the Counsels of the Skies.
XI.
Britons tis He
That rules the Sea,
He bids its raging Billows rise;
[Page 12]At his Controul,
They cease to roll,
And all the mighty Tumult dies.
XII.
His sovereign Sway
The Winds obey
That sweeps along the watry Wasle;
He fills your Sails
With Southern Gales,
Or sends the furious Northern Blast.
XIII.
The Winds, his Slaves,
Across the Waves
Well wast our mighty Squadrons o'er;
Secure they sweep
The faithless Deep,
Hnd reach at length the hostile Shore.
XIV.
Safe in his Care,
Our Navy there
Rides out the Siege in solemn State;
While
France, in pain,
Attempts in vain
To save her
Louisbourg from Fate.
XV.
In vain she sighs,
In vain she tries,
By Force to ward the dire Alarms;
By Heav'n detain'd
The Fleet ordain'd
To check the Progress of our Arms;
XVI.
But ours is seen,
Like
Neptune's Queen,
The Sov'reign Mistress of the Flood:
Nor
France can brave,
Nor Tempests stave,
The Fleet that boasts a Guardian-God.
XVII.
Each martial Band
He guards to land,
And fires amid the wild uproar;
[Page 13]O'er dashing Waves,
And gaping Graves,
Fearless they climb the rocky Shore▪
XVIII.
The roaring Main,
And Rocks in vain,
In all their dreadful Horrors rise;
In vain our Foes
Presume t'oppose
The Heav'n-directed Enterprise;
XIX.
Divinely led,
Our Soldiers shed
Fear and Confusion on the Foe;
Amaz'd they yield,
Or quit the Field,
And trembling dread th'impending Blow:
XX.
The Blow at Length,
To
Gallic Strength,
By
Britain's awful Thunder giv'n,
Th' important Blow,
For which we owe
Sincerest Thanks t'indulgent Heav'n.
XXI.
Then
Briton's join
The Work divine,
Come and address the Pow'r supreme;
In humble Lays,
Your Voices raise,
And shout loud Honours to his Name:
XXII.
Nor let your Tongues
In thoughtless Songs
Prefer a lifeless Sacrifice;
From Hearts on Fire,
Let Thanks aspire,
Like Clouds of Incense to the Skies.
XXIII.
"Almighty Lord!
*
"Thy conq'ring Sword
"Has glorious but tremendous Charms;
[Page 14]"What Mortal dare
"With THEE compare?
"How dreadful is a GOD in Arms!
XXIV.
"What Arm but Thine,
"Thou Pow'r Divine!
"Cou'd humble thus the haughty Foe?
"Thy Arm we own;
"Thy Arm alone
"Could deal the dread avenging Blow:
XXV.
"Of Fleet or Host
"We dare not boast
"Lord we confess the Work divine:
"Thee we adore;
"For sov'reign Pow'r
"Thine is; and be the Glory Thine.—
XXVI.
Nor must my Song
Forgetful wrong
Our Chiefs, those mighty Bolts of War,
The Thund'rer chose,
To dash our Foes,
And save the People of his Care.
XXVII.
By Martial Skill,
And prudent Zeal,
†
AMHERST has earn'd immortal Fame;
Let Glory shed
On BOSCAWEN's Head,
Such Rays as grace the Hero's Name.
XXVIII.
Be WOLFE renown'd;
Be LAWRENCE crown'd,
And WHITMORE with deserv'd applause;
Let HARDY shine
In
Britain's Line,
And all grow great in
Britain's Cause.
[Page 15]
XXIX.
Bold Sons of War!
Who nobly dare
Insulting
Gallia's bold Alarms
At length repay,
And wipe away
Dishonour cast on
British Arms:
XXX.
Thro' ev'ry Age,
Th' historic Page
Their Deeds with Honour shall rehearse▪
And Bards unborn
Shall well adorn
Their Names embalm'd in lofty Verse.
XXXI.
Mean while, ye Swains
On
British Plains,
Their Praise in rural Songs begin▪
Attend ye Fair,
The Wreaths prepare,
And dress their Brows in living Green.
XXXII.
Let Heav'n's kind Smiles,
And
Galli
[...] Spoils,
Your thankful Thoughts and Tongues employ,
Devoutly gay,
Those Spoils survey,
Britons, and give a Loose to Joy.
XXXIII.
Let Cannons roar
From Shore to Shore,
Heav'ns guardian Pow'r aloud proclaim,
With awful Voice,
Express our Joys,
And far resound each Hero's Name:
XXXIV.
Let
Gallia hear,
Canadia fear,
And savage Nations dare no more
Tempt
Britain's Stroke;
But own her Yoke,
And trembling
Britain's GOD adore.
FINIS.