The New Hampshire Gazette And Historical Chronicle

Messieurs PRINTERS.

If you will give the following Lines a Place in your next, you will much oblige many of your Readers,

ALMIRA's Prospect, with her tumbling Walls,
Huge Piles of Ruin heap'd on ev'ry Side,
From each Beholder, Tears of Pity calls,
Sad Monuments extending far and wide.

Yet far more dismal to the Patriot's Eye,
The drear Remains of Charlestown's former Show,
Behind whose Walls did hundred Warriors die,
And Britain's Centre felt the fatal Blow.

To see a Town so elegantly form'd,
Such Buildings grac'd with ev'ry curious Art
Spoil'd in a Moment, on a sudden turn'd.
Must fill with Indignation ev'ry Heart,

But when we find the Reasons of her Fate
To be but trifling.--Trifling did I say?
For being noble, daring to be great,
Nor calmly yielding to tyrannic Sway;

To see the Relicks of that once fam'd Place
Pointing to Heav'n as 'twere in ardent Cry,
By lawless Power robb'd of every Grace,
Yet calling Bolts of Vengeance from on high.

To find, I say, such Dealings with Mankind.
To see those Royal Robbers planted near,
Those glorious Buildings, turning into Wind,
And loth to mingle with the common Air;

Whilst such Chastisement coming from a State
Who calls herself our Parent, Nurse, and Friend,
Must rouze each Soul, that's noble, frank, and free,
And urge us on, our Lives and all to spend.

Oh Spot once graceful, but alas! no more;
Till Signs shall end, and Time itself shall cease,
Thy Name shall live and on Fame's Pinion soar
To mark grim Blackness on Great-Britain's Face.

Nor shall the Blood of Heroes, on the Plain,
Who nobly fell that Day in Freedom's Cause,
Lie unreveng'd, though with thy Thousands lain,
Whilst there's a King, who fears nor minds thy Laws

Shall Cain who madly spilt his Brother's Blood.
Receive such Cures from the God of all?
Is not that Sov'reign still as just and good
To hear the Cries of Children when they call?

Yes, there's a GOD whose Laws are still the same,
Whose Years are endless, and whose Power is great:
He is Our GOD; JEHOVAH is his Name;
With him we trust our sore opprest State.

When he Shall rise (Oh Britain dread the Day,
Nor can I stretch the Period of thy Fate)
What Heart of Steel, what Tyrant then shall stay
A Throne that's Sinking, by Oppression's Weight.

Thy Crimes, Oh NORTH, Shall then like Spectres stand,
Nor Charlestown hindmost in the ghastly Roll,
And faithless Gage, who gave the dread Command,
Shall find due Torments gnaw upon his Soul.

Yea in this World, we trust those Ills so dread
-Which fill the Nation with such matchless Woe,
Shall fall with double Vengeance on thy Head,
Nor 'Scape those Minions which thy Court compose.

Richard Wibird Penhallow.