EPISTLE To a Friend; from Fort HENRY. Dated August 10, 1758

From where his lofty head TALHEO rears, And o'er the wild in majesty appears, What shall I write that *—* won't disdain, Or worth, from Thee one moment's space to gain? The Muse, in vain, I court the lovely maid, Views with contempt the rude unpolish'd shade, Nor only this, she flies fierce war's alarms, And seeks where peace invites with softer charms; Where the gay landscapes strike the travellers eyes, And woods and lawns in beauteous order rise; Where the glad Swain sings on th' enamel'd green, And views unaw'd by fears the pleasing scene. Here no enchanting prospects yield delight, But darksome forests intercept the sight; Here fill'd with dread the trembling peasants go, And start with terror at each nodding bough, Nor as they trace the gloomy way along Dare ask the influence of a chearing song.

If in this wild a pleasing spot we meet, In happier times some humble swain's retreat; Where once with joy he saw the grateful soil Yield a luxuriant harvest to his toil, (Blest with content, enjoy'd his solitude, And knew his pleasures, tho' of manners rude); The lonely prospect strikes a secret dread, While round the ravag'd Cott we silent tread, Whose Owner fell beneath the savage hand, Or roves a captive on some hostile land, While the rich fields, with Ceres' blessings stor'd, Grieve for their slaughter'd, or their absent lord.

Yet, would I now attempt, some sprightly strain, And strive to wake your breast to mirth again, Yet, would I call you from your Delia's urn, But Britain's Genius bids her sons to mourn; She shews the fatal field, all drench'd in gore, And in sad accents cries, my Howe's no more! Then let again the briny torrents flow, Oh! teach your breast a nobler kind of woe! To mourn her faded beauties now forbear, And give the gallant Chief a British tear.