Poems for Soldiers, 1756

From Stephen Tilden, Tildenâs Miscellanous poems. 1756.

Tildenâs Miscellanous Poems, on Divers Occasions; Chiefly to Animate and Rouse the Soldiers. (1756)

Preface or Introduction.

Ingenious, and Courteous Reader,

It may justly seem a matter of great Surprize, that a Man near 70 years of Age, should attempt to be an Author : It may justly be deemâd by you, or any other Gentelman, 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 Observâd the Press for more than 60 Years, which has stood open, and free to every idle Scribler, who have come off with Impunity instead of the Punishment, I Thoât they would have had; I am thereby emboldened to venture my self 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 thoât 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 Stanzies,

Kind Sirs, If that you will accept,
This petty Pamphlet as a Gift;
With all the Powers I have left,
I will consult your Honour;
But If you throw her quite away,
As I confess you Justly may,
Ivâe nothing further for to say;
But Spit, and tread upon her.

(2)
But if that kindly you receive,
And grant the Muse a blest Reprieve;
That little while She has to Live;
Tâwill give Her Life, & Motion;
And make Her crazy Pinions Strong;
Throâ lofty Theme Sheâll fly along,
And every Stanzie in her Song;
Shall stand at your Devotion.

The British Lyon roused.

Hail, great Apollo, guide my feeble Pen,
To rouse the august Lion from his Den,
Exciting vengeance on the worst of Men.

2
Rouse British Lion from thy soft Repose,
And take Revene upon the worst of Foes,
Who try to wring & hawl you by the Nose.

3
They always did thy quiet Breast Annoy,
Raising Rebellion with the Rival Boy,
Seeking they Faith and Intârest to Destroy.

4
Treaties & Oaths they always did break throâ
They nevâr did nor wouâd keep faith with you
By Popes and Priests indulged so to Do.

5
All neighbouring Powers & neutral standers by
Look on our Cause with an impartial Eye,
And see their Falseness and their Perfidy.

6
Their grand encroachments on us neâr did cease
But by indulgence mightily increase,
Killing, and Scalping us in Times of Peace.

7
They buy our Scalps exciting savage Clans,
In Childrens Blood for to imbrue their Hands,
Assisted by their cruel gallic Bands.

8
Britains! strike home, strike home decisive Blows
Upon the heads of youâ perficious Foes,
Who always Truth, and Justice did oppose.

9
Go, brave the Ocean with your War-like Ships
And spread your Terror oâer the western Deeps
And crush the quadrons of the gallic Fleets.

10
Cleave liquid Mountains of the foaming Flood
And tinge the Billows with the gallic Blood,
A faithful Drubbing be their future Good.

11
Bury their Squadrons all in watry Tombs;
And when the News unto Versailles, it comes;
Let Lewis Swear by Gar, and gnaw his Thumbs.

12
Oh! Ride triumphant oâer the gallic Powers,
And conquer all these cursed Foes of Ours,
And sweep the Ocean with your iron Showers.

13
While all the Tribes in Neptuns spacious Hall,
Shall stand astonished at the Cannon Ball;
To see such Hart stones down among them fall

14
Some of their Tribes perhaps are killed Dead,
And others in a vast Amazement fled,
While Neptune stands Agast, and scratchâs his Head.

15
My roving Muse the Surface reach again,
Search every part of the Atlantick plain,
And see if any Gallics yet remain.

16
And if they do, let British Cannons Roar;
And let thy Thunders reach the Wester Shoar
While I shall strive to Rouse, her Sons once more.

Braddockâs Fate; with an incitement to Revenge. Composâd August 20, 1755.

Come all ye Sons of Brittanâny,
Assist my Muse in Tragedy,
And Mourn brave Braddockâs Destiny.
And spend a Mournful Day.
Upon Monongahela Fields,
The Mightyâre fallen oâer their Shields;
And British Blood bedews the Hills
Of Western Gilboa.

July the Ninth, O! Fatal Day,
They had a bold, and bloody Fray,
Our Host was smote with a Dismay;
Some basely did Retire:
And left brave Braddock in the Field;
Who had much rather Die than Yield:
A while his Sword he bravely wield,
In Clouds of Smoke, and Fire.

Sometime he bravely stood his Ground,
A Thousand Foes did him Surround,
ÎTill he receivâd a mortal Wound;
Which forcâd him to Retreat.

He Dyâd upon the thirteenth Day,
As he was home-ward on his Way;
Alas! Alas! we all must say,
A sore, and sad Defeat.

Now to his Grave this Heroâs born;
While Savage Foes triumph and scorn;
And drooping Banners dress his Urn,
And guard him to his Tomb.
Heralds, and Monarchs of the Dead,
You that so many Worms have fed,
Heâs coming to your chilly Bed,
Edge close and give him room.

The Christian Hero, or New-Englandâs Triumph; written soon after the success of our Arms at Nova-Scotia, and the Signal Victory at Lake-George.

O Heaven indulge my feeble Muse,
Teach her what Numbers for to choose,
And them my Soul shall neâer refuse,
Triumphantly to Sing;
Unto that great and heavânly Power,
Who Savâd us in a gloomy Hour,
When our dire Foes meant to devour,
ÎTwas Heavenâs eternal King.

Who made our Soldiers Men of Might,
And taught their Fingers how to Fight,
And how to aim their Shaftâs aright,
In the decisive Hour:
Throâ him we have trod down our Foe,
Who all around invironâd us so,
And sought our fatal Overthrow;
Bless the delivering Power;

He is our Fortress and our Shield;
He savâd us in the Bloody Field,
And made our Foes unto us Yield,
In spight of all their Gods;
Their vetâran Bands weâve vanquished,
And sent them Head-long to the Dead;
While some in dire Confusion fled
To Covers of the Woods.

Their Dieskaw we from them detain;
While Canada aloud Complains;
And count the Numbers of their Slain,
And make their dire Complaints;
The Indians to their Demon Gods;
And with the French thereâs little Odds;
While Images receive their Nods;
Invoking rotten Saints.

New-Englandâs Sons, and Daughters Sing,
Triumph unto your heavenly King;
Who did such great Salvation bring,
In such a needy Hour.
Not all created Powers can Trace
His Glories throâ unbounded Space;
Nor Seraphâs Eye behold his Face,
Nor half describe his Power.

Of Old, when he was Israels God,
He clave the red Arabian Flood,
The watry Walls like Castles stood;
ÎTill Israel reachâd the Land:

But fell with most tremendous Force,
On Pharoahâs Riders, and his Horse,
ÎTil they were dashâd, & drownâd, and lost,
And cast upon the Sands;

Throâ Desart Lands their Tribes he led,
And forty Years he rainâd them Bread,
So that with plenty they were Fed,
On the Arabian Sands;
And oft relievâd them in Distress,
Whilst they were in the Wilderness,
ÎTill they his Mercyâs do Confess;
And keep his great Commands.

Again at his Almighty Word,
Old Jordan backward rollâd his Flood,
Which like a rocky mountain stood,
Nor darâd for to Oppose,
ÎTill that the feet of his high Priest;
The yielding Channel had releasâd;
Then he returnâd his rapid Force,
His Banks he over-flows.

Heâs still the same Almighty God,
He brought our Fathers oâer the Flood;
And scatterâd all their Foes abroad;
Gave them this Wilderness:
His tender mercies we must own,
Who heard us when we made our Moan;
O might we Live to him alone,
And never more Transgress.

They Planted were, the choicest Vine;
Religion was their grand Design:
But from their Ways we do Decline,
The source of many Woes:
Yet hath he not Forsaken us;
Althoâ we have departed thus;
Yet by his Arm Assisting us;
We have trod down our Foes.

It would be vile Ingratitude;
Since he our Foes has oft subduâd,
To show a wilful Turpitude,
And pamper flesh Desire;
But O! the cursed charms of Sin;
We fear we shall return again,
Unto the Pit we tumbled in,
And wallow in the Mire.

O that he would our Souls renew
And all our sinful Powers subdue,
And from Pollution purge us throâ
Wash us and make us clean,
In Lavers of that precious Blood,
Which issuâd from the Son of God,
More healing than was Siloams Flood;
The one effectual Mean.

If he would seise our feeble Frame;
And mould our Souls over again,
Make them his Image to retain,
And all our Powers inspire;

Then should the Sun no more than we,
Nor Moon, nor Stars obedient be,
Nor Run with such alacritie,
Nor such intense Desire.

Forbear my Muse thy feeble Song,
The Themeâs too high, & much too strong
For any sinful mortalâs Tongue;
It shakes thy feeble Frame.
The loftiest Numbers cannot raise
A true and adequated Praise,
Unto the Ancientest of Days,
Nor celebrate his Fame:

The highest Heavens supremely Bright,
Are scarcely Pure in his Sight;
His charge of Folly is most right,
On Angels high, and just:
Then what shall we poor Mortels say,
Who have been wont to disobey;
And dwell in Houses made of Clay,
And founded in the Dust:

The reigning Powers around his Throne,
Before him they do cast their Crown;
With deep abasement spread the Ground,
Submissive at his Feet:
The Glories of his Majesty,
Too powerful for a Seraphâs Eye;
Therefore it doth his Presence fly;
And seek a Vailâd retreat.

Forbear my Muse, hide in the Dust,
But neâer forget to put thy Trust,
On the most Holy, High and Just,
The Fountain of all Power;
Come cancel all they feeble Lays,
And rather Live, than speak his Praise,
Spend the Remainder of thy Days
To love, and to Adore.