Classic Poem

I.

What theme propitious to the lay;
What gallant hero shall we choose,
Whose name the sounding chord shall sway,
And fire the glowing muse?
What chief in Britain's martial train,
Has fame with palm victorious crown'd,
Whose deeds upon the embattled plain,
Her golden trump shall ceaseless sound?
'Tis W OLFE — Beneath the spacious sky,
A hero of sublimer name,
The searchful muse shall ne'er descry
To consecrate with deathless fame.

II.

Where great S T. L AWRENCE rolls its awful flood,
He, daring, led Britannia's warrior-band,
Scal'd its proud banks, and pierc'd the desart wood,
That veils the horrors of the hostile land.
Soon C ANADA confess'd his warlike might,
If on the plain conspicuous he appear'd,
Or 'gainst Quebec's aspiring tow'ry height,
His thund'ring arm all-dreadfully he rear'd.

III.

Now lights his vengeance on the dastard foe —
So once Pelides, on the Trojan field,
(Whilst death stood glaring on his crimson'd shield)
Fill'd ev'ry trembling Dardan heart with woe.
Thick as loud whirlwinds strew the fading leaves,
Along the autumnal plain,
Array'd in arms, he fell'd the Gallic chiefs;
A welt'ring breathless train.

IV.

What shall Britannia's wrath appease,
Or what restrain her flaming ire,
When foes disturb her sacred peace,
And with just rage her champions fire?
What glorious deeds around thee beam'd,
O W OLFE ! on Abram's purpled plain,
When the warm sanguin'd current stream'd
Of all the flow'r of Gallia slain?
Nought but the trumpet's martial sound,
The clang of polish'd arms,
The thund'ring steed that beats the ground,
Could fill thy soul with charms!

V.

The destin'd hour at length appears,
Celestial victory emits her ray,
And rids Britannia of her fears,
And echoes round propitious day:
The hills around
With joy resound,
And spread the golden tidings far;
The trident-bearing god
Mounting from his deep abode,
To Albion tells the auspicious war ;
Tells how, with ancient valour fraught,
Her sons resum'd paternal might;
How the intrepid Townshend fought,
And mighty Wolfe put hosts to flight!

VI.

But while superior to all fear,
With his bold ranks the hero drove,
O'er heaps of slain, in full career —
A shaft, commission'd from above,
Full to his breast with fatal speed,
Took its unerring way,
Down fell great Wolfe amidst the dead,
And purpled where he lay —
" How goes the fight? " he cries,
(For round his head
Grim death was spread
And dim'd his rolling eyes.)
A gen'rous friend reply'd,
" The foes are fled! "
" Enough! " he said,
And without groaning dy'd.

VII.

Such are the chiefs that merit fair renown,
And follow bold where glory leads the way!
Such are the chiefs that grace a monarch's crown,
And from the muse demand th' immortal lay!
Chiefs that from Albion's billow-beaten shore,
Can risque the perils of th' Atlantic flood,
And dauntless ride thro' fields bedew'd with gore,
To bathe their youthful arms in Gallic blood!
Proud in the cause of honour to expire,
To stem the onset of the hostile band ;
And dare the deep-mouth'd cannon's thund'rous fire,
To crown with joy Britannia's happy land.
Tho' Wolfe shall shine in flaming arms no more,
Now thron'd in bliss above the cloudless skies;
Cease, O ye sons of Britain, to deplore,
Whilst Brunswick reigns, yet other Wolfes shall rise!