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| 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 | 5 |
| 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, | 10 |
| 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: | |
| ’T is not the beauty of the morn | 15 |
| That proves the evening shall be clear. | |
| |
| They saw their injured country’s woe; | |
| The flaming town, the wasted field; | |
| Then rushed to meet the insulting foe; | |
| They took the spear,—but left the shield. | 20 |
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| Led by thy conquering genius, Greene, | |
| The Britons they compelled to fly: | |
| None distant viewed the fatal plain; | |
| None grieved, in such a cause to die. | |
| |
| But like the Parthians, famed of old, | 25 |
| Who, flying, still their arrows threw; | |
| These routed Britons, full as bold, | |
| Retreated, and retreating slew. | |
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| Now rest in peace, our patriot band; | |
| Though far from Nature’s limits thrown, | 30 |
| We trust they find a happier land, | |
| A brighter sunshine of their own. | |
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