Who shot the old chief Paugus, which did the foe defeat,

Then set his men in order, and brought off the retreat;

And braving many dangers and hardships in the way,

They safe arriv'd at Dunstable, the thirteenth day of May.t

The long-continued contest known as the old French War, though waged at a comparative distance from the settled portion of the country, was one which could not fail to leave its trace in the popular literature. The foe was one whose ascendency, in the opinion of a great part of the colonists, foreboded destruction to soul as well as body. The Roman Catholic priest represented a system which they detested; the Indian was identified with infant recollections and the tales of terror of the fireside. The colonists went heart' and hand with the mother country, and shared to the full the John Bull prejudice and contempt of a Frenchman. As expedition succeeded expedition, battle followed after battle, the companionship in different scenes of danger and endurance led to a union of feeling among the representatives of different portions of the country, and. while it furnished a school of warfare, presented one also of federative union.

History has been active in identifying the localities of the war and in preserving the memory of its heroes, but has bestowed slight care on a department which has claims equal to these-the preservation of the ballad and song which cheered the long march of the soldier through the wilderness, and warmed the hearts of his kindred at the fireside. Many, probably, of the fugitive productions of which we have spoken have perished, and the lines of some which remain may to us have little of the spirit-stirring element, but they are worthy of regard for their past services.

One of the first in order of the productions to which we have alluded is a little duodecimo pamphlet of thirty pages, entitled Tilden's Miscellaneous Poems on Divers Occasions, chiefly to animate and rouse the Soldiers. Printed 1756. We know nothing of the author beyond the information he furnishes us in his

PREFACE, OR INTRODUCTION. INGENIOUS AND COURTEOUS READER:

It may justly seem a matter of great surprise that a man near 70 years of age should attempt to be an author: it may justly be deemed by you, or any other gentleman, to be the product of superannuation. Yet, Courteous Reader, I have some excuses to make, for digging up rusty talents out of the earth so long lain hid. In the first place, when I was young I was bashful, and could not stand the gust of a laugh; but having observed the press for 60 years, which has stood open and free to every idle scribbler, who have come off with impunity instead of the punishment, I tho't they would have

* Many of Lovewell's men knew Paugus personally. A huge bear's skin formed a part of his dress. From Mr. Symmes' account, it appears that John Chamberlain killed him. They had spoken together some time in the fight, and afterwards both happened to go to the pond to wash out their guns, which were rendered useless by so frequent firing. Here the challenge was given by Paugus, It is you or I." As soon as the guns were prepared they fired, and Paugus fell.

+Wyman and three others did not arrive until the 15th, but the main body, consisting of twelve, arrived the 18th.

had; I am thereby emboldened to venture myself among the rest. But, ingenious sirs, I think I have greater and nobler views; for since brave soldiers are the very life, nerves, and sinews of their country, and cannot be too much honored, nor too well paid -being a lover of martial discipline-I tho't at this critical juncture it might be of some service to the public, to attempt to animate, and stir up the martial spirits of our soldiery, which is the utmost I can do under my present circumstances. The small effort I made last spring was so well accepted by the gentlemen of the army, that I am thereby emboldened to revise that, and some other pieces, and put them into a small pamphlet. I have nothing further to say, Gentlemen, but conclude with the two following stanzas:

Kind Sirs, if that you will accept,
This pretty Pamphlet as a gift:*
With all the powers I have left,

I will consult your Honor,
But if you throw her quite away,
As I confess you justly may,
I've nothing further for to say;

But spit and tread upon her.
But if that kindly you receive,
And grant the Muse a blest reprieve;
That little while she has to live,

"Twill give her life and motion,
And make her crazy pinions strong;
Thro' lofty theme she'll fly along,
And every stanza in her song,

Shall stand at your devotion.

The work opens as a patriotic work, designing to fill, in due course, all the regular requirements of such a production, with

THE BRITISH LION ROUSED.

Hail! great Apollo guide my feeble pen,
To rouse the august lion from his den,
Exciting vengeance on the worst of men.

Rouse, British Lion, from thy soft repose,
And take revenge upon the worst of foes,
Who try to ring and haul you by the nose.
They always did thy quiet breast annoy,
Raising rebellion with the Rival Boy,
Seeking thy faith and int'rest to destroy.
Treaties and oaths they always did break thro';
They never did nor wou'd keep faith with you,
By popes and priests indulged so to do.

All neighbouring powers and neutral standers by
Look on our cause with an impartial eye,
And see their falseness and their perfidy.
Their grand encroachments on us ne'er did cease,
But by indulgence mightily increase,
Killing and scalping us in times of peace
They buy our scalps, exciting savage clans,
In children's blood for to embue their hands,
Assisted by their cruel Gallic bands.

The British lion on his legs, with rampant tail, we have next The English Soldiers Encouraged, from which we take a passage exhibiting the grievances complained of:

From Acadia to the Ohio river,

They seize your lands where Jove is not the giver ;
Laying a plan that they in time to come,
O'er all these lands may sing their Te Deum;
And cloud your sun with Popish superstition,
And make you dread their bloody Inquisition.

In vain you'll sigh, and make your sad complaints
Unto these idiot-worshippers of saints.
Better to die if Heaven sees it fit,

In fields of blood, than ever to submit:
Go, heroes bold, you've a commission given

From George, our king, and the great King of
Heaven.

The blood of infants crieth from the ground,
With scalped mothers scatter'd up and down.
Revenge, revenge our blood and righteous cause
Upon these rogues who break all nature's laws.
In coverts they watch many days and nights,
To take a time to do their base exploits,
Scalp a few children, home again they run,
And swing their scalps and sing their Te Deum:
They've murther'd thus in all our north frontiers,
Fill'd mothers' hearts with sighs and groans and
tears,

And thus they've acted more than three-score years.
Had ever mortals such a cursed foe?

Ask Jove or Mars, and they will tell you no.

Next follows Braddock's Fate, with an Incitement to Revenge, composed August 20, 1755. We select a passage, headed

HIS EPITAPH.

Beneath this stone brave Braddock lies,
Who always hated cowardice,
But fell a savage sacrifice;

Amidst his Indian foes.

I charge you, heroes, of the ground,
To guard his dark pavilion round,
And keep off all obtruding sound,

And cherish his repose.
Sleep, sleep, I say, brave valiant man,
Bold death, at last, has bid thee stand,
And to resign thy great demand,

And cancel thy commission:
Altho' thou didst not much incline,
Thy post and honors to resign;
Now iron slumber doth contine;

None envy's thy condition.

A survey of the battle so rouses the author, that he gives us some glimpses of his own individuality:

Their skulking, scalping, murdering tricks
Have so enraged old sixty-six,*

With legs and arms like withered sticks,
And youthful vigor gone;
That if he lives another year,
Complete in armor he'll appear,
And laugh at death, and scoff at fear,
To right his country's wrong.

Let young and old, both high and low,
Arm well against this savage foe,
Who all around environ us so;

The sons of black delusion.
New England's sons, you know their way,
And how to cross them in their play,
And drive these murdering dogs away,
Unto their last confusion.

One bold effort O let us make,
And at one blow behead the snake;
And then these savage powers will break,
Which long have us oppress'd.

And this, brave soldiers, will we do,
If Heaven and George shall say so too:
And if we drive the matter thro'

The land will be at rest.

The Author.

Come, every soldier, charge your gun,
And let your task be killing one:
Take aim until the work is done:

Don't throw away your fire;
For he that fires without an aim,
May kill his friend, and be to blame,
And in the end come off with shame,

When forced to retire.

O mother land, we think we're sure
Sufficient is thy marine powers,
To dissipate all eastern showers:
And if our arms be blest,
Thy sons in North America
Will drive these hell-born dogs away
As far beyond the realms of day,

As east is from the west.

Forbear, my muse, thy barbarous song,
Upon this theme thou'st dwelt too long,
It is too high and much too strong,
The learned won't allow:
Much honor should accrue to him,
Who ne'er was at their Academ,
Come, blot out every telesem;*

Get home unto thy plow.

A poem follows on The Christian Hero, or New England's Triumph; written soon after the success of our arms at Nova Scotia, and the Signal Victory at Lake George, after which we find The Soldiers Reproved for Reflecting on one another. The remaining pieces consist of verses on The Vanity and Uncertainty of all Sublunary Things; An Epitaph upon Sir Isaac Newton; and An Essay on Progedies and Earthquakes.

We are indebted for one of the most stirring of our specimens to The History of An Expedition against Fort Du Quesne in 1755 under MajorGeneral Braddock, edited from the original manuscripts by Winthrop Sargent, M.A.; published during the present year by the Pennsylvania Historical Society. "This jingling provincial ballad," says Mr. Sargent, "was composed in Chester county, Pennsylvania, while the army was on its march in the spring or early summer of 1755. During the Revolution it was still a favorite song there, the name of Lee being substituted for Braddock. It has never, I believe, appeared in print before. There is no doubt of its authenticity."

To arms, to arms! my jolly grenadiers!

Hark, how the drums do roll it along!
To horse, to horse, with valiant good cheer;
We'll meet our proud foe before it is long.
Let not your courage fail you;
Be valiant, stout, and bold;
And it will soon avail you,

My loyal hearts of gold.

Huzzah, my valiant countrymen!-again I say huz

zah!

Tis nobly done the day's our own-huzzah, huzzah, March on, march on, brave Braddock leads the fore

most;

The battle is begun as you may fairly see. Stand firm, be bold, and it will soon be over; We'll soon gain the field from our proud enemy. A squadron now appears, my boys; If that they do but stand! Boys, never fear, be sure you mind The word of command!

A name the author gives to this sort of metre-Author's note.

Huzzah, my valiant countrymen! again I say huzzah!

'Tis nobly done-the day's our own-huzzah, huzzah! See how, see how, they break and fly before us! See how they are scattered all over the plain! Now, now-now, now, our country will adore us! In peace and in triumph, boys, when we return again!

Then laurels shall our glory crown

For all our actions told:

The hills shall echo all around,

My loyal hearts of gold.

Huzzah, my valiant countrymen!-again I say

huz

zah! 'Tis nobly done-the day's our own-huzzah, huzzah! The Pennsylvania Gazette of September 30, 1756, contains the following spirited

ODE TO THE INHABITANTS OF PENNSYLVANIA.

Still shall the tyrant scourge of Gaul
With wasteful rage resistless fall

On Britain's slumbering race?
Still shall she wave her bloody hand
And threatening banners o'er this land,
To Britain's fell disgrace?
And not one generous chieftain rise
(Who dares the frown of war despise,
And treacherous fear disclaim)
His country's ruin to oppose,
To hurl destruction on her foes,
And blast their rising fame?

In Britain's cause, with yalour fired,
Braddock, unhappy chief! expired,
And claim'd a nation's tear;
Nor could Oswego's bulwarks stand
The fury of a savage band,

Though Schuyler's arm was there.
Still shall this motley, murderous crew
Their deep, destructive arts pursue,
And general horror spread?
No-see Britannia's genius rise!
Swift o'er the Atlantic foam she flies
And lifts her laurell'd head!

Lo! streaming through the clear blue sky,
Great Loudon's awful banners fly,

In British pomp display'd!
Soon shall the gallant chief advance;
Before him shrink the sons of France,
Confounded and dismay'd.

Then rise, illustrious Britons, rise!
Great Freedom calls, pursue her voice,
And save your country's shame!
Let every hand for Britain arm'd,
And every breast with virtue warm'd,
Aspire at deathless fame!

But chief, let Pennsylvania wake,
And on her foes let terrors shake,

Their gloomy troops defy;

For, lo! her smoking farms and plains,

Her captured youths, and murder'd swains,
For vengeance louder cry.

Why should we seek inglorious rest,
Or sink, with thoughtless ease oppress'd,
While war insults so near?

While ruthless, fierce, athirst for blood,
Bellona's sons, a desperate brood!
In furious bands appear!

Rouse, rouse at once, and boldly chase
From their deep haunts, the savage race,
Till they confess you men.

Let other Armstrongs* grace the field: Let other slaves before them yield,

And tremble round Du Quesne.

And thou, our chief, and martial guide,
Of worth approved, of valour tried
In many a hard campaign,
O Denny, warmed with British fire,
Our inexperienced troops inspire,
And conquest's laurels gain!

"As

The fine song, "How stands the glass around?" is said to have been composed by General Wolfe the evening before the attack on Quebec. Wolfe was a man of fine taste as well as literary ability, and one of the many stories of the repetition of Gray's Elegy by distinguished men on their deathbeds, or near the close of their lives, perpetuates an incident of the same eventful evening. he passed from ship to ship," of the fleet containing his troops, "he spoke to those in the boat with him of the poet Gray, and the Elegy in a Country Churchyard. 'I,' said he, 'would prefer being the author of that poem to the glory of beating the French to-morrow;' and while the oars struck the river as it rippled in the silence of the night air under the flowing tide, he repeated,

"The boast of heraldry, the pomp of power,

And all that beauty, all that wealth e'er gave Await alike th' inevitable hour,

The paths of glory lead but to the grave."*

HOW STANDS THE GLASS AROUND?

How stands the glass around? For shame ye take no care, my boys, How stands the glass around? Let mirth and wine abound, The trumpets sound,

The colours they are flying, boys,

To fight, kill, or wound,
May we still be found

Content with our hard fate, my boys,
On the cold ground.

Why, soldiers, why,

Should we be melancholy, boys!
Why, soldiers, why?

Whose business 'tis to die!
What, sighing? fie!

Don't fear, drink on, be jolly, boys!

"Tis he, you or I!

Cold, hot, wet, or dry,

We're always bound to follow, boys, And scorn to fly!

The death of Wolfe called forth many mournful tributes to his virtues. We select a few lines which appeared in the Pennsylvania Gazette, Nov. 8, 1759.

Thy merits, Wolfe, transcend all human praise,
The breathing marble or the muses' lays
Art is but vain-the force of language weak,
To paint thy virtues, or thy actions speak.
Had I Duché's or Godfrey's magic skill,
Each line to raise, and animate at will-
To rouse each passion dormant in the soul,
Point out its object, or its rage control-

Then, Wolfe, some faint resemblance should we find
Of those great virtues that adorn'd thy mind.
Like Britain's genius shouldst thou then appear,
Hurling destruction on the Gallic rear-
While France, astonish'd, trembled at thy sight,
And placed her safety in ignoble flight.
Thy last great scene should melt each Briton's heart,
And rage and grief alternately impart.

With foes surrounded, midst the shades of death, These were the words that closed the warrior's breath

"My eyesight fails!-but does the foe retreat!
If they retire, I'm happy in my fate!"

A generous chief, to whom the hero spoke,
Cried, "Sir, they fly!-their ranks entirely broke:
Whilst thy bold troops o'er slaughter'd heaps ad-

vance,

And deal due vengeance on the sons of France."
The pleasing truth recalls his parting soul,
And from his lips these dying accents stole:-
"I'm satisfied!" he said, then wing'd his way,
Guarded by angels to celestial day.

An awful band!-Britannia's mighty dead,
Receives to glory his immortal shade.
Marlborough and Talbot hail the warlike chief-
Halket and Howe, late objects of our grief,
With joyful song conduct their welcome guest
To the bright mansions of eternal rest—
For those prepared who merit just applause
By bravely dying in their country's cause.

JOHN MAYLEM.

John Maylem was graduated at Harvard in 1715. He published, in 1758, The Conquest of Louisbourg, a Poem, 8vo. pp. 16, and in the samne year, Gallic Perfidy, a Poem, about the same length. His name appears on the titlepages of both these productions, with the warlike affix, "Philo-bellum." From the character of some unpublished poems, copied in a MS. collection made by Du Simitière the antiquary, preserved in the Philadelphia library, he appears to have loved wine and Venus as well. Du Simitière, who appears to have had a special fondness for the writer, has also copied a letter from John Maylem to Mr. J-s-plio-n, in which he calls himself a drunkard, and describes an attempt which he made to hang himself, in which a brief tension of the rope by his suspended neck was followed by an abandonment of the project, serious reflection, and, up to the date of the letter, a thorough reformation.

Maylem's poetic ordnance is suggestive of the weight of the metal rather than the fire and momentum of the discharge. We will, however, give a brief passage from one of the most intensified of his "sound and fury" strains:—

Meanwhile, alternate deaths promiscuous fly, And the fierce meteors blaze along the sky;

Then shiver in the air, and sudden pour
A cloud of atoms, in a sulphur shower;
Or in their city wild convulsive burst
Ten thousand ways, and mingle with the dust,
A gaping chasm in their wall disclose,
The reeking soldier at his death repose.
While fate in showers of lead connected rains,
And wings famed heroes to her dark domains;
The cutting grape-shot spatter o'er the heath,
And the fierce langrel aid the glare of death.
In such sad scenes alternately involved,
Till one fair season half her course dissolved;
Too much the odds-the Gallic ensigns struck,
By all their patron images forsook,

With drooping flag and solemn pace advance,
Their courage faints, nor more can stand the chance,
The last sad purpose of their souls impart,
And claim the mercy of a British heart.

The following decided expression of opinion is taken from Du Simitière's MS. copy:

SATIRE ON HALIFAX, IN NOVA SCOTIA.

The dregs of Thames and Liffy's sable stream,
Danubian rubbish and the Rhine's my theme,
Of them I sing, the rebel vagrant rout,
Base emigrants that Europe speweth out,
Their country's bane, such traitrous scoundrel crews,
Torn from the gaols, the gallows, and the stews,
From Europe's plains to Nova Scotia's woods,
Transported over the great Atlantic floods;
In shoals they come, and fugitive invade
The horrid gloom of Halifax's shade.

Oh, Halifax! the worst of God's creation,
Possest of the worst scoundrels of each nation:
Whores, rogues, and thieves, the dregs and scum of

vice,

Bred up to villainy, theft, rags, and lice

Proud upstarts here, tho' starved from whence they

come;

Just such a scoundrel pack first peopled Rome; Send them to hell and then they'll be at home. Another of the poets of the war was

GEORGE COCKINGS.

We know nothing of this writer in connexion with America except that he wrote a portion of his poem on War in Newfoundland, in the winter of 1758; that the second edition of his performance was published at Portsmouth, "in Piscataqua, or New Hampshire Colony, in America, in 1761," the first having appeared in London in 1760, and the third "in Massachusetts Colony, in 1762." The fourth and last edition was published in London without date, but inust have appeared in or before 1766, as we find it advertised in its complete form on the title-page of a play, The Conquest of Canada, by the same writer, and it was not until its fourth issue that it attained its full growth of ten books. He was also the author of Stentorian Eloquence and Medical Infallibility, a satire in verse on itinerant preachers and advertising quacks, published in 1771, and of Benevolence and Gratitude, a Poem, in 1772.

The longest and most ambitious of these productions is the Heroic Poem on War. The subject grew upon the author from an account of the conquest of Louisburg to a chronicle of the entire war, including the achievements of the English at the Havana and Manilla. Wolfe is of course the chief hero of his chronicle. A few lines from the argument of his poem will display its style:

I sing how Wolfe, the faithless foe engag'd;
(For where Wolfe led, the battle fiercely rag'd!)
The havock of his war, the mould'ring walls!
Quebec's, Cape Breton's fate; the conquer'd Gauls!
His warlike deeds, no doubt, you'll all approve,
Whom foes admire! and conqu'ring Britons love.
By bloody toils, he gain'd on hostile ground,
That honour great; with which his mem'ry's
crown'd:

In Britain's cause (amidst the martial strife)
He fought, he conquer'd, and resign'd his life:
So Sampson flung proud Dagon's temple down,
Gain'd glorious death! and conquest! and renown!

*

Where English, Scotch, and bold Hibernians storm, (A formidable triple union form!)

The three-fold pow'rs their gallantry display, Like powder, shot, and fire, impetuous force their way!

The closing simile is a good specimen of the strangely combined vigor and absurdity which characterize this odd production.

Cockings's versification was amended by practice. His progress reminds us of those remarkable specimens of improvement put forth by advertising writing-masters as proofs of the proficiency of their pupils. As a specimen of his first attempt we will give the salutation of Sophia to her lover, Wolfe, when he comes to take leave of her before leaving for America, an interview to which the general has worked up himself and his audience by a preliminary soliloquy :

:

Sophia. When I find, sir, you prefer the noise and

Danger of the Battle, and Fatigues of

A foreign Campaign, to the quiet enjoyment
Of your Friends in Safety in your native
Country?

Second attempt—A passage from the description of Louisburg during the siege:

Disploded shells and shot together throng;
And mortars from their brazen bases flung,
A prospect odd, of iron, brass, and lead:
Of stones, and mangled bodies of the dead.
Fathers to future sons shall this report;

So fought brave Wolfe; so look'd their island fort.

Third attempt-the opening of his satire

When empiricks illit'rate rise,

And cram the press with bare-fac'd lies,
And with great effront'ry declare,
Their med'cines most effectual are, &c.

Fourth and last attempt, from Benevolence and Gratitude, a very fair copy of verses, Master Cockings, with an exuberance of flourish quite remarkable as compared with the cramped hand of No. 1:

Descend celestial muse! my song inspire;
With sentiments sublime, my bosom fire,
To sing the gifts conferr'd on human race;
With gratitude the streams of bliss to trace.

Cockings, but little successful as an epic, is still less so as a dramatic poet. His play is heavy and absurd. His heroes seem to forget in their long speeches that they have started with blank verse, their language soon degenerates into the plainest of plain prose. A passage from the thick of the action before Quebec will show, however, that the author lavishes his choicest similes with demoVOL. 1.-28

cratic impartiality on the humbler as well as more exalted of the dramatis personæ.

Front Trumpet.-My brave fellows! behave like British seamen.

There's warm duty for ye!

A sailor answers.-Never fear, sir!
We'll tow them ashore, if the grapples hold;
Or we'll fry like sausages in the flames!

BENJAMIN YOUNG PRIME.

The Patriot Muse, or Poems on some of the principal events of the late war: together with a poem on the Peace: Vincit amor patria: By an American Gentleman, was published at London in 1764, in an 8vo. pamphlet of 94 pages. It is stated in a note in the copy belonging to the Philadelphia Library, to be by Benjamin Young Prime of New York. It contains poems on Gen. Braddock's defeat; on the surrender of Fort William Henry; an elegy on Governor Belcher, the governor of New Jersey, and the Rev. Aaron Burr, President of Nassau Hall. A few lines will give a sufficient idea of the last.

But whither am I led? why all this grief?
Though great our sorrow 'tisn't past relief;
Let sad BURRISSA's sighs be all supprest,

And sooth'd the anguish of her troubled breast.

An Ode on Viscount George Augustus Howe, slain in a skirmish near Carillon, July 6th, 175S, follows an ode on the surrender of Louisburg. It consists of thirty-four stanzas similar to the following:

"Tis done, 'tis done,

The day is won,

At length the destin'd blow is giv'n;
Though long our woes,

And strong our foes,

Our cause is still the cause of heav'n.

Another ode, "composed on the taking of Que

bec," contains a tribute to Wolfe.

Ah Wolfe! the mention of thy name
Damps in my breast th' heroic flame,
And gloomy scenes far other thoughts inspire;
Smit by thy truly noble deeds,

Brave man! my conscious bosom bleeds,
To think such merit should so soon expire.
And shall the martial lay
Triumphantly display
Britannia's victories?

And not the fun'ral strain

In pensive moans complain,

When ah! perhaps her bravest hero dies?
Yes, thou shalt now my thoughts employ,
Awhile I'll bid adieu to joy,

And in soft mis'ry mourn;
Awhile my cheerful tongue
Shall drop the gay unfinished song,
And sing the dirge funereal o'er thy urn.

Britain, dear shade, indignant grieves
To be victorious at thy cost;

She mourns thy fall, and scarce believes
The conquest glorious, where her Wolfe is lost,
While she triumphant twines

For her surviving sons the laurel wreath
To martial merit due,

Struck by thy hapless fate, she joins
The cypress and the yew,

To mourn her loss and their's in thy lamented death
But thou couldst not repine,
Thou freely couldst resign

In Britain's cause thy breath;