A

PINDARIC ODE.

 

Occasion’d by the lamented Fate of

 

Viscount George Augustus Howe,

Baron of Glenawley, &c.

 

Who was Slain in the Battle near Carillon, July the

6^th, 1758.

 

 

 

The Unfortunate HERO;

An     O     D     E.

 

I.

COME, weeping Muse, descend and bring

They well-known Lute, thy doleful Notes renew,

With trembling hand strike each complaining String,

(Thy drooping Brows crown’d with funercal 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.

 

II.

Cone 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 suncreal strains

Describes a Loss so Formidably great,

Lay ev’ry smiling Joy aside,

Let undissembled Sorrows flow,

And in a briny Tide

Giver you soft Passions vent, and all disolve in Woe.

 

III.

Form 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 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

Thou 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.

 

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’s

Th’ unmanly Softness of the Age,

Nor wou’d he be a Guest

Where fulsome Lux’ry reign’d:

The British In’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, cerlestial 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 Asrea, to her native Skies.

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.

Other 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 wife,

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 continualLabours worried out the Day!

Such were the Warriors of the Days of old,

Such [illedgible], such Camillus bold,

And the great Scipio’s rose;

Heroes like these extensive Vengeance hurl’d

On Rome’s persidious 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

They 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 hime;

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?

 

 

VII.

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.

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 deliberate 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 fail in vain?

No, give the Wretch the Fate he gave,

Let hin not triumph o’er the Brave;

But fed just Vengeance for an Hero slain.----

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

Britain’s Disgrace and Abercromby’s Shame,

To future Times,

And distant Chimes,

Loud shall resound thy Name,

And shine with Honour in the Rolls of Fame.

 

 

 

1758 Campaign Research