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153
THE MOTHER OF WOLFE.
A white sail reached the Ocean Isle,
That awes the subject sea,
And with electric touch awoke
Wild shouts of victory.
That awes the subject sea,
And with electric touch awoke
Wild shouts of victory.
“Quebec is ours!—Montcalm is down!—
The lilied flag is low!
The Plains of Abraham all are strewn
With the defeated foe,
The lilied flag is low!
The Plains of Abraham all are strewn
With the defeated foe,
“There lie the men of France beside
Their Indian allies base;
Our colonists like lions fought,
And proved their Saxon race.”
Their Indian allies base;
Our colonists like lions fought,
And proved their Saxon race.”
But ah! the sequel of the tale!—
Must the sad truth be said,
That Wolfe, Britannia's hero brave,
Is with the silent dead?
Must the sad truth be said,
That Wolfe, Britannia's hero brave,
Is with the silent dead?
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In tones of murmured grief they tell
How wound on wound he bore,
Yet dauntless ruled the battle tide
On that far, rocky shore.
How wound on wound he bore,
Yet dauntless ruled the battle tide
On that far, rocky shore.
Until the fatal shaft was sped,
That sealed his ardent eye,
And, mid the trance of death, he caught
The sound,—“They fly! they fly!”
That sealed his ardent eye,
And, mid the trance of death, he caught
The sound,—“They fly! they fly!”
“Who fly?”—“The French!”—a glorious light
His pallid brow o'erspread;
“I die content;”—the heart grew still,
And he was of the dead.
His pallid brow o'erspread;
“I die content;”—the heart grew still,
And he was of the dead.
Red bonfires blazed from cliff to vale,
Glad bells their greeting gave;
The loud Te Deum richly swelled
From many a hallowed nave,
Glad bells their greeting gave;
The loud Te Deum richly swelled
From many a hallowed nave,
While to St. Paul's the exulting king
With long procession hied,
And Pitt, the lofty statesman, drank
The cup of patriot pride.
With long procession hied,
And Pitt, the lofty statesman, drank
The cup of patriot pride.
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Yet in one Kentish town alone
No jocund peal was rung,
And sad the fallen victim's name
Was breathed from every tongue.
No jocund peal was rung,
And sad the fallen victim's name
Was breathed from every tongue.
For there a lonely woman bent
O'er her last earthly trust,
And wept as only mothers weep
When what they love is dust.
O'er her last earthly trust,
And wept as only mothers weep
When what they love is dust.
Her thoughts were of the infant head
That in her breast would hide,
The boy's bright brow, the clustering curls,
Her early matron pride,
That in her breast would hide,
The boy's bright brow, the clustering curls,
Her early matron pride,
The youthful smile, the sparkling eye,
Her pulse to joy that stirred,
The manly arm that never more
Her feeble form must gird,
Her pulse to joy that stirred,
The manly arm that never more
Her feeble form must gird,
The flowing blood, the shuddering pang,
She might not staunch or share;
And all his laurels were forgot
In that intense despair.
She might not staunch or share;
And all his laurels were forgot
In that intense despair.
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For her, even hardest hearts confessed
Soft pity's tender tide,
And that poor widowed mother's grief
Allayed a nation's pride.
Soft pity's tender tide,
And that poor widowed mother's grief
Allayed a nation's pride.
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