Lovely Jean (1)/The death of Wolfe

---

THE DEATH OF WOLFE.

In a mouldering cave a wretched retreat,
⁠Britannia sat wasted with care:
She wept for her Wolfe, then exclaim'd against Fate,
⁠and gave herself up to despair.
The walls of her cell she had sculptur'd around,
⁠With th' exploits of her favorite son;
Nay, even the dust, as it lay on the ground,
⁠Was engrav'd with some deeds he had done.

The fire of the gods from his chrystaline throne,
⁠Beheld the disconsolate dame,
Being mov'd with her tears, sent Mercury down.
⁠And these were the tidings that came:
"Britannia, forbear, not a sigh nor a tear,
⁠For thy Wolfe, so deservedly lov'd ;
Thy grief shall be chang'd into tumults of joy,
⁠For Wolfe is not dead, but remov'd.

"The sons of the earth, the proud giants of old,
⁠Have fled from their darksome abodes;
And, such is the news that in heaven is told,
⁠They are marching to war with their gods.
A council was held in the chamber of Jove,
⁠And this was their final decree;
That Wolfe should be call'd to the army above,
⁠And the charge was entrusted to me.

"To the plains of Quebec with the orders I flew;
⁠Wolfe beg’d for a moment's delay;
He cry'd, 'Oh; forbear, let me victory hear,
⁠And then the command I'll obey.'
With a dark'ning film'd encompass'd his eyes,
⁠And bore him away in an urn;
Lest the fondness he bore to his own native shore
⁠Might tempt him again to return."

FINIS.