On the Death of Captain NICHOLAS BIDDLE,—who was blown up in the RANDOLPH Frigate. 1776

What distant thunders rend the skies, What clouds of smoke in volumes rise, What means this dreadful roar! Is Aetna from her basis torn, Is sky-topt Atlas over-thrown; Or is the Earth no more!

Shock after shock torments my ear, And lo, two hostile ships appear, Red lightnings round them glow; The Yarmouth boasts of sixty-four, The Randolph thirty-two—no more,— And will she fight this foe!

O, who commands that dismal blaze, Where yonder starry streamer plays, Does Mars with Jove engage!— 'Tis Biddle wings those angry fires, Biddle, whose bosom Jove inspires, With more than mortal rage.

Tremendous flash—and hark, the ball Drives through old Yarmouth, flames and all Her bravest sons expire; Had Mars himself approach'd so nigh, Even Mars without disgrace might fly, From Biddle's fiercer fire.

The Briton eyes his mangled crew, And shall we strike to thirty-two, Said Hector stain'd with gore; Shall Britain's flag to these descend,— Rise, and the glorious conflict end, Britons, I ask no more.

He spoke—they charg'd their cannon round,— Again the vaulted heavens resound, The Randolph bore it all;— Then fixt her pointed cannon true,— Away the winged vengeance flew,— Britain, thy warriors fall!

The Yarmouth saw with dire dismay, Her wounded hull—shrouds shot away,— Her boldest heroes dead;— She saw amidst her floating slain, Biddle triumphant stem the main, She saw—she turn'd and fled.—

That hour, great, chief had she been thine, Dear Biddle had the powers divine, Been kind as thou wert brave; But Jove surmis'd that such a deed, Would mortals from this temple lead, And Biddle all his honours have.—

When thus to Mars said Heaven's great fire, "Receive this arrow tipt with fire, And haste—make haste away; To yonder conquering ship depart, And midst her entrails shoot this dart;— Shall she with lightnings play?—

But when she bursts with horrid roar, And the fam'd Randolph swims no more, Observe my sworn decree; Let her brave lads demand thy care, To Heaven's best seats bid them repair,— But Biddle bring to me.—

Of all the chiefs that stem the main, Who war against proud Britain's reign, He best deserves my love; Apollo shall his praise rehearse, And Clio stile him in her verse, Companion to the son of Jove.

The Randolph soon on Stygian streams, Shall coast along the land of dreams, The islands of the dead; While I—who part them on the deep, Preserve the Briton still to weep, His ancient honours fled."—

He spoke—and Mars with tears obey'd, The Randolph her last volley play'd, The Yarmouth own'd the contest o'er; But Mars his flaming arrow threw,— To heaven triumphant Biddle flew,— The Randolph swam no more.