OCCASIONAL POEMS.

ELEGY

ON THE

BURNING OF FAIRFIELD, IN CONNECTICUT.

Written in 1779, on the Spot where that Town stood.

YE smoking ruins, marks of hostile ire,

Ye ashes warm, which drink the tears that flow, Ye desolated plains, my voice inspire,

And give soft music to the song of woe.

How pleasant, Fairfield, on th' enraptur'd sight
Rose thy tall spires, and op'd thy social halls!
How oft my bosom beat with pure delight,

At yonder spot where stand the darken'd walls!

But there the voice of mirth resounds no more,
A silent sadness through the streets prevails:
The distant main alone is heard to roar,

And hollow chimnies hum with sullen gales→→→

Save where scorch'd elms th' untimely foliage shed,
Which, rustling, hovers round the faded green-
Save where, at twilight, mourners frequent tread,
'Mid recent graves o'er desolation's scene.

How chang'd the blissful prospect, when compar'd,
These glooms funereal, with thy former bloom,
Thy hospitable rights when Tryon shar'd,
Long ere he seal'd thy melancholy doom!

That impious wretch, with coward voice decreed
Defenceless domes and hallow'd fanes to dust;
Beheld, with sneering smile, the wounded bleed,
And spurr'd his bands to rapine, blood and lust.

Vain was the widow's, vain the orphan's cry, To touch his feelings, or to sooth his rageVain the fair drop that roll'd from beauty's eye, Vain the dumb grief of supplicating age.

Could Tryon hope to quench the patriot flame, Or make his deeds survive in glory's page? Could Britons seek of savages the fame,

Or deem it conquest, thus the war to wage?

Yes, Britons! scorn the councils of the skies, Extend wide havock, spurn th' insulted foes; Th' insulted foes to tenfold vengeance rise,

Resistance growing as the danger grows.

Red in their wounds, and pointing to the plain,
The visionary shapes before me stand-
The thunder bursts, the battle burns again,
And kindling fires encrimson all the strand.

Long dusky wreaths of smoke, reluctant driv'n, In black'ning volumes o'er the landscape bend: Here the broad splendour blazes high to heav'n, There umber'd streams in purple pomp ascend.

In fiery eddies, round the tott'ring walls,

Emitting sparks, the lighter fragments fly; With frightful crash the burning mansion falls, The works of years in glowing embers lie.

Tryon, behold thy sanguine flames aspire, Clouds ting'd with dyes intolerable bright; Behold, well pleas'd, the village wrapt in fire; Let one wide ruin glut thy ravish'd sight!

Ere fades the grateful scene, indulge thine eye,
See age and sickness, tremulously slow,
Creep from the flames-see babes in torture die,
And mothers swoon in agonies of woe.

Go, gaze, enraptur'd with the mother's tear,

The infant's terror, and the captive's pain, Where no bold bands can check thy curst career; Mix fire with blood on each unguarded plain!

These be thy triumphs! this thy boasted fame!
Daughters of mem'ry, raise the deathless songs!
Repeat through endless years his hated name,
Embalm his crimes, and teach the world our wrongs.

ELEGY

ON

LIEUTENANT DE HART,*

Volunteer Aid to General Wayne.

WHEN Autumn, all humid and drear,

With darkness and storms in his train,
Announcing the death of the year,
Despoil'd of its verdure the plain:
When horror congenial prevail'd,
Where graves are with fearfulness trod,
De Hart by his sister was wail'd;
His sister thus sigh'd o'er his sod:

“Near Hudson, a fort, on these banks,
"Its flag of defiance unfurl'd:
"He led to the storm the first ranks;

"On them iron tempests were hurl’d.
"Transpierc'd was his breast with a ball-
"His breast a red fountain supply'd,
"Which, gushing in waves still and small,
"Distain'd his white bosom and side.

"His visage was ghastly in death,
"His hair, that so lavishly curl'd,

"I saw, as he lay on the heath,

"In blood, and with dew-drops impearl'd. "How dumb is the tongue that could speak "Whate'er could engage and delight!

"How faded the rose on his cheek!
"Those eyes, how envelop'd in night!

*This young warrior was killed in the attack on the block-house, near Fort Lee, 1780.

"Those eyes, that illumin'd each soul, "All darken'd to us are now grown: "In far other orbits they roll,

"Like stars to new systems when gone, "My brother, the pride of the plain, "In vain did the graces adorn; "His blossom unfolded in vain,

"To die like the blossom of morn.

"Oh war! thou hast wasted our clime,
"And tortur'd my bosom with sighs;
"My brother, who fell ere his prime,
"For ever is torn from my eyes.
"To me, how distracting the storm,
"That blasted the youth in his bloom!
"Alas! was so finish'd a form

"Design'd for so early a tomb?

"How bright were the prospects that shone! "Their ruin 'tis mine to deplore— "Health, beauty, and youth were his own; "Health, beauty, and youth are no more. "No blessings of nature and art,

"Nor music that charm'd in the song, "Nor virtues that glow'd in the heart, "Dear youth, could thy moments prolong!

"Thrice six times the spring had renew'd
"Its youth and its charms for the boy:
"With rapture all nature he view'd,
"For nature he knew to enjoy.
"But chiefly his country could charm:
"He felt 'twas a generous heat-
"With drums and the trumpet's alarm,
"His pulses in consonance beat,

"Ye heroes, to whom he was dear,

"Come weep o'er this sorrowful urn, "Come ease the full heart with a tear"My hero will never return: "He died in the dawn of applause, "His country demanded his breath; "Go, heroes, defend the same cause,

"Avenge, with your country, his death."

So sung on the top of the rocks,

The virgin in sorrow more fair;

In tears her blue eyes; and her locks

Of auburn flew loose in the air.
I heard, as I pass'd down the stream;
The guards of the foe were in view:→
To enterprize fir'd by the theme,

I bade the sweet mourner adieu.

AN

EPITAPH.

ALEXANDER SCAMMEL,
Adjutant-General of the American Armies,

and

Colonel of the first regiment of New-Hampshire,

while

he commanded

a chosen corps of light infantry,
at the

successful siege of York-Town, in Virginia,

was,

in the gallant performance of his duty,
as field officer of the day,
unfortunately captured,

and

afterward insidiously wounded;

of which wound he expired at Williamsburgh, October, 1781. Anno ætatis....

Though no kind angel glanc'd aside the ball,
Nor fed'ral arms pour'd vengeance for his fall:
Brave Scammel's fame, to distant regions known,
Shall last beyond this monumental stone,

Which conqu❜ring armies (from their toils return'd)
Rear'd to his glory, while his fate they mourn'd.