To the Memory of the Americans who fell at Eutaw

At Eutaw Springs the valiant died:
    Their limbs with dust are covered o'er—
  Weep on, ye springs, your tearful tide;
    How many heroes are no more!

  If, in this wreck of ruin, they
    Can yet be thought to claim the tear,
  Oh, smite your gentle breast, and say,
    The friends of freedom slumber here!

  Thou, who shalt trace this bloody plain,
    If goodness rules thy generous breast,
  Sigh for the wasted rural reign;
    Sigh for the shepherds, sunk to rest!

  Stranger, their humble graves adorn;
    You too may fall, and ask a tear;
  'Tis not the beauty of the morn
    That proves the evening shall be clear,—

  They saw their injur'd country's woe;
    The flaming town, the wasted field;
  Then rush'd to meet the insulting foe;
    They took the spear—but left the shield.

  Led by thy conquering genius, Greene,
    The Britons they compell'd to fly:
  None distant view'd the fatal plain,
    None griev'd, in such a cause, to die,—

  But, like the Parthians, fam'd of old,
    Who, flying, still their arrows threw;
  These routed Britons, full as bold
    Retreated, and retreating slew.

  Now rest in peace, our patriot band;
    Though far from Nature's limits thrown,
  We trust they find a happier land,
    A brighter sunshine of their own.