The Battle of Breed's Hill.
Look down upon the bay, my men,
As proudly comes the foe;
Ah! send them back their shout agen,
That patriot hearts may glow.
They come to us in pomp of war—
The tyrant in his gold;
Our arms are few—they're stronger far,
But who will say as bold?
No Briton ever forged the chains
Shall bind our hands at will;
The Pilgrim spirit still remains,
Out on the western hill.
Their power may awe the coward slave,
But not the stalwart free;
Their steel may drive us to the grave,
But not from liberty.
Our fathers spirit boils along
Impetuous through our veins;
We ask to know, where are the strong,
To bind us in their chains?
Then let the foe look to his steel,
And count his numbers strong;
We bide him here for wo or weal,
As he shall know ere long.
We'll dare him to the last of death—
We've sworn it in our hearts;
We stand upon our native heath—
We'll hold till life departs.
Oh! what is death to slavery!
The dead at least are free:
And what is life for victory!
We strike for liberty!
This sod shall warm beneath our feet,
All reeking in our gore,
And hearts that gladly cease to beat,
The foe must trample o'er.
Our boys are bold—their mothers stern,
Will rear them true and brave,
And many noble hearts shall burn
To free a father's grave.
Let every tongue be hushed and still,
Each soldier hold his breath—
They're marching up the sloping hill,—
And now prepare for death.
ALPHA.
For the Southern Literary Messenger.
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