 | Words by the Wayside |  |
120
General Wolfe
(September 13th, 1909)
A hundred years and fifty Time doth tell
Since up the heights of Abraham, this day,
Wolfe with his heroes dared the pathless way,
And won it, and heroically fell,
Whence sprang to birth beyond the Atlantic swell
England's great heritage. Yet, this side the spray,
Of sculptured art or dedicative lay
No record to renown him! Is it well?
Since up the heights of Abraham, this day,
Wolfe with his heroes dared the pathless way,
And won it, and heroically fell,
Whence sprang to birth beyond the Atlantic swell
England's great heritage. Yet, this side the spray,
Of sculptured art or dedicative lay
No record to renown him! Is it well?
“Who runs?—the foeman? Then I die content.”
So spake he, though his heart's half-breathed desire
Did to the Muses' gentler heights aspire.
Now through the ages beacon-like he flames,
By none out-splendoured in that firmament
Whose galaxies of light are glorious names.
So spake he, though his heart's half-breathed desire
Did to the Muses' gentler heights aspire.
Now through the ages beacon-like he flames,
By none out-splendoured in that firmament
Whose galaxies of light are glorious names.
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