JT-49-AN APOSTROPHE TO GEN. BRADDOCK.

AN APOSTROPHE TO GEN. BRADDOCK.

Braddock! the pride of Britain’s lands,
Commander of her train.
Who drove in war the Gallic bands,
Or slew then, on the plain.

Thy steed was like the bounding roe,
Thy sword a blaze of fire,
Thy charge upon th’invading foe,
Like winter whirlwinds dire.

Thy wrath was like the gath’ring storm,
That darkens round the day,
When trembling trees in sad deform,
Would gladly flee away.

Like lightning gleaming across the sky,
And wings destruction far,
The terrors of thy sword did fly,
Along the field of war.

Thy voice was like the rolling floods,
That tumbles from the hills,
That sweeps the cottage of the woods,
And floats away the rills.

Or like loud thunder to thy foes,
Were words of thy command,
Thy conq’ring arm with death bestows,
The reeking, trembling land,

Like a tall oak that lifts its head,
And braves the winter’s sky;
So Braddock stood--nor did he dread,
The hosts that pass’d him by.

Thy arm reclaim’d the bloody field,
From Gallia’s strongest host,
The vanquish’d foes the contest yield--
The arduous contest lost.

To save thy brethren from the grave,
And peace to them restore,
Thou sail’dst across th’ Atlantic wave,
And hail’d Columbia’s shore.

Thy march was thro’ a desert wide,
To meet the bloody sight,
George Washington was at thy side--
Advised thee how to fight.

But, O! thy heart disdain’d the thought,
Of learning arts of war,
Or by a "buckskin" to be taught,
From Britain’s Island far.

But soon, alas! the savage yell,
Resounded thro’ the vale;
Like blighted figs thy soldiers fell,
And the sad day bewail.

’Twas far in mountains of the west,
That Braddock bravely bled,
’Tis there thy bones are now at rest,
Among the silent dead.

Tho’ once so valiant and so brave,
That Gallia dreaded thee,
But now thy dwelling is the grave,
Beneath a mournful tree.

How low thy mansion and thy head,
In silence thou dost dwell,
A grave of earth is now thy bed,
A loathsome wormy cell.

Calm as the lake thy peaceful breast,
When winds distress no more,
When stormy winds are lull’d to rest,
Nor beat upon the shore.

Two mossy stones that stand for thee,
Are only left to say:
"Braddock the great, behold and see,
Has moulder’d here in clay."

No mother left to mourn thee slain,
Nor wife to call thy name,
The hooting owls o’er thee complain,
Thy lonely grave proclaim.

The trees that grow around the spot,
The waving thistles there,
This hero’s name have ne’er forgot,
But waft it on the air.

The stranger when he passes by
Thy grave o’er grown with moss,
Shall say "Great Braddock here doth lie,
His nation’s dearest loss."