'Till slaughtered lives our native streets
prophan'd,
And thy slave's hand our hallow'd crimson
stain'd,
No sudden rage the ruffian Soldier tore,
Or swan the pavement with his vital gore,
Delib'rate thought did all our souls
compose,
'Till veil'd in glooms
the low'ry morning rose ;
No mob then furious urg'd th' impassion'd fray,
No clam'rous tumult din'd the solemn day,
In full convene the City Senate fat,
Our FATHER'S spirit rul'd the firm debate ;—
The freeborn soul no reptile tyrant checks,
'Tis Heaven dictates when the people speaks ;
Loud from their tongues the awful mandate broke,
And thus inspir'd the sacred Senate spoke ;
Ye miscreant troops be gone ! Our presence fly,
Stay, if ye dare, but if ye dare, ye die !
Ah ! too severe the fearful Chief replies,
Permit one half—the other instant flies—
No parle, avant, or by our FATHER'S shades,
Your reeking lives shall glut our vengeful blades,
E'er morning's light begone,—or else we swear,
Each slaughter'd coarse shall feed the birds
of air
E'er morning's light has streak'd the skies with red,
The Chieftains yielded, and the soldier fled,
'Tis thus experience speaks---the test forbear,
Nor shew these states your feeble front of war,
But