wounded and borne from the field by two
soldiers._

GARDINER.

A musket-ball, death-wing'd, hath pierc'd my groin,
And widely op'd the swift curr'nt of my veins.
Bear me then, Soldiers, to that hollow space,
A little hence, just in the hill's decline.
A surgeon there may stop the gushing wound,
And gain a short respite to life, that yet
I may return, and fight one half hour more.
Then, shall I die in peace, and to my GOD,
Surrender up, the spirit, which He gave.

SCENE IX.

PUTNAM [_to the American Army_].

Swift-rising fame, on early wing, mounts up,
To the convexity of bending Heaven,
And writes each name, who fought with us this day,
In fairest character, amidst the stars.
The world shall read it, and still talk of us,
Who, far out-number'd, twice drove back the foe,
With carnage horrid, murm'ring to their ships.
The Ghost of Warren says, enough--I see
One thousand veterans, mingled with the dust.
Now, for our sacred honour, and the wound,
Which Gard'ner feels, once more we charge--once more,
Dear friends, and fence the obscur'd hill
With hecatombs of slain. Let every piece
Flash, like the fierce-consuming fire of Heaven,
And make the smoke, in which they wrap themselves,
"A darkness visible."--Now once again,
Receive the battle, as a shore of rock
The ocean wave. And if at last we yield,
Leave many a death, amidst their hollow ranks,
To damp the measure, of their dear-bought joy.

SCENE X _and Last_. _Bunkers-Hill._

_The American Army overpower'd by numbers are obliged to retreat._

_Enter HOWE, PIGOT, and CLINTON with the British Army._

RICHARDSON [_a young officer, on the parapet_].

The day is ours, huzza, the day is ours,
This last attack has forc'd them to retreat.

CLINTON.

'Tis true, full victory declares for us,
But we have dearly, dearly purchas'd it.
Full fifteen hundred of our men lie dead,
Who, with their officers, do swell the list
Of this day's carnage--On the well-fought hill,
Whole ranks cut down, lie struggling with their wounds,
Or close their bright eyes, in the shades of night.
No wonder! such incessant musketry,
And fire of Cannon, from the hill-top pour'd,
Seem'd not the agency of mortal men,
But Heaven itself, with snares, and vengeance arm'd,
T' oppose our gaining it. E'en when was spent
Their ammunition, and fierce Warren slain,
Huge stones were hurled from the rocky brow,
And war renew'd, by these inveterate;
Till Gard'ner wounded, the left wi