_GARDINER, desperately wounded and borne from the field by two
soldiers._
GARDINER.
A musket-ball, death-wing'd, hath pierc'd my groin,
And widely op'd the swift curr'nt of my veins.
Bear me then, Soldiers, to that hollow space,
A little hence, just in the hill's decline.
A surgeon there may stop the gushing wound,
And gain a short respite to life, that yet
I may return, and fight one half hour more.
Then, shall I die in peace, and to my GOD,
Surrender up, the spirit, which He gave.