Thomas Godfrey (1736–1763)

From Fort Henry.

FROM where his lofty head Talheo rears,

And o’er the wild in majesty appears,

What shall I write that ——— wont disdain,

Or worth, from thee one moment’s space to gain?

The muse,—in vain I court the lovely maid,—

Views with contempt the rude unpolish’d shade;

Nor only this, she flies fierce war’s alarms,

And seeks where peace invites with softer charms;

Where the gay landscapes strike the traveller’s eyes,

And woods and lawns in beauteous order rise;

Where the glad swain sings on the enamell’d green,

And views, unawed by fears, the pleasing scene.

Here no enchanting prospects yield delight,

But darksome forests intercept the sight;

Here fill’d with dread the trembling peasants go,

And start with terror at each nodding bough,

Nor as they trace the gloomy way along,

Dare ask the influence of a cheering song.

If in this wild a pleasing spot we meet,

In happier times some humble swain’s retreat;

Where once with joy he saw the grateful soil

Yield a luxuriant harvest to his toil,

(Bless’d with content, enjoy’d his solitude,

And knew his pleasures, though of manners rude;)

The lonely prospect strikes a secret dread,

While round the ravaged cot we silent tread,

Whose owner fell beneath the savage hand,

Or roves a captive on some hostile land,

While the rich fields, with Ceres’ blessings stored,

Grieve for their slaughter’d or their absent lord.

Yet would I now attempt some sprightly strain,

And strive to wake your breast to mirth again,

Yet would I call you from your Delia’s urn,

But Britain’s genius bids her sons to mourn;

She shows the fatal field, all drench’d in gore,

And in sad accents cries, “My Howe ’s no more!”

Then let again the briny torrents flow.

Oh! teach your breast a nobler kind of woe!

To mourn her faded beauties now forbear,

And give the gallant chief a British tear.