Conscious I am, great Sire, the patriot's theme 

 In my weak sex may unbecoming seem; 

 For, in an age so viciously refin'd, 

 By folly blinded, to caprice resign'd, 

 Perhaps you deem the very name of arms, 

 The thought of rapine, and of war's alarms, 

 Of slaughter by contending armies made, 

 Of burnish'd swords in deathful feats display'd, 

 Of mourning widows, and of bleeding swains, 

 Of burning towns, and desolated plains, — 

 Perhaps you deem such themes were ne'er design'd 

 To occupy the tender female mind; 

 Ordain'd to study only how to please, 

 And court the prospect of domestic ease: 

 Yet oh! forgive, while patriot virtue fires, 

 And soft humanity the strain inspires: 

 Forgive, great Sire, if sorrowing I unfold 

 Each dismal scene which my sad eyes behold; 

 And, while the natives of my country bleed, 

 The cause of sufF'ring worth I dare to plead. 



The radiant sun rolls on its swift career, 

 But not remote beam'd forth that joyful year, 

 When o'er proud MecklenburgJis belov'd domain 

 Fair plenty smil'd on every fertile plain : 

 The placid months serenely fled away, 

 The fields were fruitful, and the groves were gay. 

 But now, alas ! my streaming sorrows flow, 

 Now, my dear country is one scene of woe ; 

 Depopulation makes a frightful void, 

 The peasant flies, or lingering is destroy'd : 

 Where'er, in anguish, roll my aching eyes, 

 All the dire horrors of the war arise ; 

 The devastations of the martial train, 

 With streaming gore empurple ev'ry plain : 

 With native blood the swollen rivers glide, 

 And to the ocean roll a crimson tide; 

 While into camps the fertile fields are made, 

 And thickest woods can scarce from danger shade; 

 Woods where afflicted families retire, 

 To shun the slaught'ring sword or raging fire. 

 In vain they seek their weary eyes to close; 

 Or if exhausted strength induce repose, 

 Oppressive terrors agitate the soul, 

 And fancy hears the battle's thunder roll. 

 A famish'd child lifts up its streaming eyes, 

 " Food, food! I perish!" the pale infant cries; 

 The fainting mother ready to expire, 

 Replies with tears, and supplicates the sire : 

 The sire, unable to afford relief, 

 Stands a distracted monument of grief; 

 With blended sighs they mourn their hapless doom, 

 And envy their loved babe the shelt'ring tomb. 



Now 



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