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General GAGE's CONFESSION, Being the SUBSTANCE of His Excellency's last CONFERENCE, With his Ghostly Father, Friar FRANCIS.
Explebo nemerum, reddarque tenebris. VIRG.
By the Author of the Voyage to BOSTON. A POEM, &c.
Printed in the Year, 1775.
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General GAGE's Confession, &c.
COMPASSION—'tis a stranger to my heart,
Or if it comes—un welcome guest depart,—
Boston farewel, thy final doom is pass'd,
North hears my prayers, and I'm recall'd at last;
Sailor on high thy canvas wings display,
Howl ye West winds and hurry me away;
Rise boisterous clouds and bellowing from on high,
Whisk me along, ye tyrants of the sky—
Quick, let me leave these friendless shores that shed,
Ten thousand curses on my hated head—
But why so swift, why ask I gales so strong,
Since conscience, cruel conscience goes along,
Must conscience rack my bosom o'er the deep?
I live in hell while she forbears to sleep;
Come father Francis, be my heart display'd,
My burden'd conscience asks thy pious aid;
Come, if confession can discharge my sin,
I will confess till hell itself shall grin,
And own the world has found in me again,
A second Nero, nay another Cain.
FRIAR.
Why swells thy breast with such distressing woe?
Your honour surely has the sense to know,
Your sins are veneal—trust me when I say,
Your deepest sins may all be purg'd away—
But if misfortunes rouse this mighty grief,
Sure friar Francis can afford relief:
I thought e're this that leaders of renown,
Would scorn to bow to giddy fortune's frown,
[Page 4] See yon bright Star (the dewy eve begun)
Walks his gay round and sparkles in the sun;
Faints not, encircled by the ambient blaze,
Tho' pestring clouds may sometimes blunt its rays
But come, confession makes the conscience light,
Confess, my son, and be absolv'd this night.
GAGE.
First of the first, I tell it in your ear
(For tho' we whisper, heaven you know can hear)
This faultless country ne'er deserv'd my hate,
Just are its pleas; unmerited its fate.
When North ordained me to this thankless place,
My conscience rose and star'd me in the face,
And spite of all I did to quench its flame,
Convinc'd me I was wrong before I came—
But what alas, can mortal heroes do,
They are but men, as sacred writings shew—
Tho' I refus'd they urged me yet the more,
Nay, even the king descended to implore,
And often with him in his closet pent,
Was plagu'd to death to rule this armament,
Who could a monarch's favourite wish deny?
I yielded just for peace—ay faith did I—
If this be sin, O tell me, reverend sage,
What will alas, become of guilty Gage?
FRIAR.
If this be sin—'tis sin I make no doubt,
But trust me honour'd sir, I'll help you out,
Even tho' your arms had rag'd from town to town,
And mow'd like flags these rebel nations down,
[Page 5] And joyful hell return'd the murdering din,
And you yourself the master butcher been—
All should be well—from sins like this, I ween,
A dozen masses shall discharge you clean,
Small pains in purgatory you'll endure,
And hell you know is only for the poor,
Pay well the priest and fear no station there,
For heaven must yield to vehemence of prayer.
GAGE.
Heaven grant that this may be my smallest sin,
Alas, good friar, I'm yet deeper in—
Come, round my bed, with friendly groans condole,
To gratify my paunch, I've wrong'd my soul;
Arms I may wield and murder by command,
Spread devastation thro' a guiltless land,
Whole ranks to Hell with howling cannon sweep—
But what had I to do with stealing sheep?
I've read my orders, conn'd them o'er with care,
But not a word of stealing sheep is there;
Come, holy friar, can you make a shift,
To help a sinner at so dead a lift?
Or must I onward to perdition go,
With theft and murder to complete my woe?
FRIAR.
Murder—nay, hold—your honour is too sad,
Things are not yet I hope become so bad,
Murder, indeed—you've stole and that I know,
But, sir, believe me, you've not struck a blow,
Some few Americans have bled, 'tis true,
But 'twas the soldiers kill'd them, and not you.
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GAGE.Well said, but will this subtil reasoning stand,
Did not the soldiers murder by command,
By my command?—Friar, they did I swear,
And I must answer for their deeds I fear.
FRIAR.
Let each man answer for his proper deed,
From sins of murder I pronounce you freed,
And this same reasoning will your honour keep,
From imputations of purloining sheep:
Wallace, for this to Rome shall post away
And for this crying sin severely pay,
And tho' his zeal may think his penance slight,
Hair cloth and [...] shall be his bed at night,
Coarse fare by day—till his repeated groans
Convince the world he for this sin atones.
GAGE.
Alas, poor Wallace, how I pity thee?—
But let him go—'tis better him than me—
Yes let him harbour in some convent there,
And fleas monastic bite him till he swear—
But friar have you patience for the rest,
Half my transgressions are not yet confest.
FRIAR.
Not half—you are a harmless man I'm told—
Pray cut them short—the supper will be cold.
GAGE.
Some devil regardless of exalted station,
In evil hour assail'd me with temptation,
To issue forth a damned proclamation,
[Page 7] What prince, what king, from Belzebub is free,
He tempted Judas, and has tempted me!
This, this O friar was a deadly flaw,
This for the civil, founded martial law,
This crime will Gage to Lucifer consign,
And purgatory must for this be mine.
Next—and for this I breathe my deepest sigh,
Ah cruel, flinty, hard remorseless I—
How could I crowd my dungeons dark and low,
With wounded captives of our injur'd foe,
How could my heart more hard than hardned steel,
Laugh at the pangs that mangled captives feel?
Why sneer'd I at may fellow men distrest,
Why banish'd pity from this iron breast!
O Friar, could heaven approve my acting so,
Heaven still to mercy swift, to vengeance slow?—
O no—you say, then cease your soothing chat,
Cowards are cruel, I can instance that—
But hold, why did I, when the fact was done,
Deny it all to gallant WASHINGTON,
Why did I stuff th' epistolary page,
With vile invectives, only worthy Gage?
Come friar help—shall I recant and say,
I writ my letter on a druken day?
How will it sound, if men should chance to tell
A drunken hero can compose so well?
FRIAR.
Your fears are groundless, give me all the blame,
I writ the letter, you but sign'd your Name,
[Page 8] Nor let the proclamation cloud your mind,
'T was I compos'd it and you only sign'd—
I friar Francis—papist tho' I be,
You private papists can't but value me;
Your sins in Lethe shall be swallowed up,
I'll clear you if you please before we sup.
GAGE.
Nay, clear me not—tho' I should cross the brine,
And pay my vows in distant Palestine,
Or land in Spain a stranger poor and bare,
and rove on foot a wretched pilgrim there,
And let my eyes in streams perpetual flow,
Where great MESSIAH dy'd so long ago,
And wash his sacred footsteps with my tears,
And pay for masses fifty thousand years,
All would not do—my monarch I've obey'd,
And now go home, perhaps to lose my head—
Pride sent me here, pride blasted in the bud,
Which if it can, will build it's throne in blood,
With slaughter'd millions glut it tearless eyes,
And make all nature fall that it may rise,—
Come let's embark, your holy whining cease,
Come let's away, I'll hang myself for peace:
So Pontius Pilate for his murder'd Lord,
In his own bosom sheath'd the deadly sword—
Tho' he confess'd and wash'd his hands beside,
His heart condemn'd him, and the monster dy'd.
FINIS.