On the DEATH of the amiable Lieutenant YEATES, who fell at the battle of Princeton

If manly virtue, deck'd with decent pride, If modest merit warm on virtue's side, If stedfast courage, bold in freedom's cause, And meek religion yet deserve applause, Thy name, dear YEATES! beyond the silent grave Shall be lamented, by the good and brave. Stretch'd on the plain, thy helpless body lay, The bloody Briton, smiling o'er his prey, Insults thy pain; and deaf to mercy's call, Full at thy heart he aims the deadly ball; The bayonet's fell point he then embrues, And o'er the earth his precious bowels strews, Hear me, ye sons of that degenerate race, Whose fervile souls the name of man disgrace, Who proudly boast of ancient Britons name, Yet meanly seek to enhance a tyrants fame. Ye savage wretches, red with human gore, If vengeance lives, shall Yeates's name deplore; And ye vain brothers, who with murd'rous breath, Send forth your Russians, big with horrid death— The sacred preachers and the hoary sage, The tender virgin and the matron's age, The mangled victims of your brutal rage Call loud for vengeance on the tyrant's head; Whose cruel mandates wild destruction spread. Think not, the sons of warm Virginia's clime Shall e'er forget, 'till they revenge the crime; 'Till at their feet the boasted conquerors fall; Shrink at the fight of death, and loud for mercy call. Oh much lov'd YEATES! Oh dear lamented youth, Thou fairest pattern of untainted truth. How would the tears thy swelling eyes o'er flow Thy tender bosom melt at human woe? Let softest slumbers, guardian angels round Thy tomb attend, 'till the last trump shall sound.