University of Virginia Library

Why shouts Quebec? Why rolls from all her towers
The peal of gladness, through the midnight air,
O'er moving crowds? Why do her casements blaze,
Her torches flash, in lines of restless light?
Great Montcalm is return'd with victory,
And moves in triumph through her blazing streets.
Before him glide Canadian maids, white-robed—
War-widow'd virgins, on whose pensive cheeks
The blush of health had faded into snow.
Life, life, how heav'nly graceful are thy forms,
In joy or sorrow! Soft as sleep they move,
High-waving o'er their heads the spotless lawn,
And scattering roses at his proud steed's feet.
Quebec pours forth her people, young and old,
To see again her great deliverer.
The war-unchilded mother, and the boy
Whose sire had fall'n in battle, came abroad;
Even the friendless, aged, houseless man
Cast on his ruin'd dwelling, as he pass'd,
But one brief glance, then, dancing with the young,
Follow'd the glad procession and rejoiced.
The soldier's widow sought the crowded streets;
Oh, deem not that her true heart could forget
Her low-laid husband! No! with mournful smiles
She thought of him and wept; but while she view'd
The glittering scene, those sad smiles seem'd to say,
“And he, too, was a soldier.” Did not, then,
Love-lorn Miranion of the down-cast eye
Steal to the lattice of her tower to gaze?
She (stately nun! angelic exile! torn
From nature's bosom!) on the various throng
Look'd pale and anxious. Soon again she saw,
Herself unseen, yet mute and timidly,
Though with energic pensiveness, the lord
Of her affections, Montcalm. Loftier seem'd
His martial beauty, darker his large eye,
With triumph fired; and god-like headvanced,
To redivorce her vows. Unhappy maid!
Why was she born? All-ignorant is he
What cause he hath to feel ennobling pride—
Miranion loves him! but he knows it not.
He reins his foamy steed; the mighty crowd
Halts, and is hush'd, and living statues hold
Unnumber'd torches still! She sees no torch,
She sees no crowd, her eyes are fix'd on him.
He waves his hand, he bows in act to speak;
Forward she bends; she listens motionless;
Hangs on his lips, and breathless drinks his speech,
As if the words that should pronounce her death,
Quiver'd for awful utterance on his tongue.
“France is victorious; Ever fortunate!
She, mistress of the nations, shall extend
The limits of her sway. Columbia spreads
The verdure of unbounded wilds, and rolls
Her rivers rivalless, to load with wealth
Our noble country; and the vanquish'd seas
Shall bound her greatness with their amplitude;
For England, like a wintry sun, descends,
Nor shall the sloping orb, return'd, arise
Again to glory. Laud the Lord of Hosts!
The maple, and the monarch of the woods,
Magnolia, now in praise lift up their hands,
To measureless Missouri's serpent folds.
I see the unborn glory of this land—
Her sons, high-destined, her immortal men,
The stately children of futurity.
Laud, then, the God of Battles, my loved friends!
Calamity hath worn you, war hath sown
Your streets with woe; but better days approach.
Go to your homes, and to your little ones
Say—Ruin hath stalk'd near us, with a frown
That awed, but blasted not—the storm is past.”

So said he, hapless in his prophecy,
And, from the throng retiring, sought repose.
Then, as a catacomb's vast silence, soon
The living scene was hush'd; a silent crowd,
A peopled solitude—the city slept.
Time ever moves, the only traveller
That tires not, rests not; dilatory man
May loiter and may pause; Time pauses not.
How fast his wings have swept away the hours!
And lo! 'tis come! The important hour is come
That shall make children fatherless, and dash
Into despair the confident hope of pride!
Thou, Quebec, sleepest! and thy warrior sons,
In visions, see the host of England worn
With famine, and subdued without a blow.
But that unconquer'd host abjures repose,
Crowds every boat, and glides, inaudibly,
Down the dark river. Wake, proud city, crest
Thy rocks with thunder, while they yet are thine!

Night hears the bat and owlet flit and swim
Over funereal forests, all asleep;
And mighty rivers, and lakes ocean-like—
That gaudily deck th' eternal wilderness,
And round the virgin waist of solitude,
Enamour'd, twine their long and beauteous arms—
Slumber beneath innumerable stars.
The snow-white porpoise, rising, starts to hear
The prow-divided wave. How sweet, O night,
Thy chaste and unperturb'd sublimity!
Yet, on the shaded river, many a heart
Aches, as the British boats, with muffled oars,
Glide with the stream. Of England's happy fields
Thinks the doom'd soldier, mute—of friends and home—
Of love and quiet—and the parting look,
Engraven on his heart—of weeping wife—
Oh! never more around his neck to clasp
Her arms, or lift his babes to kiss their sire.
Amid the silent faces, there is one
Most thoughtful. O'er the stern he leans in thought,
Where, thro' the glimmering waves, gleams many a face
Of slaughtered warrior, peaceful in his tomb
Of waters; for, tho' heaven's bright queen towers not
Above the mountains; yet, the clouds which wreath
Their highest cliffs, tinged with her mildest beams,
Are visible in magic forms of shade
And brightness; and their edges, silver-fringed,
Tremble, reflected on the glassy stream.
The shrouded heavens, the solemn hour, the vast
River, the rocks enormous, plumed with pines,
That cast their calm shades o'er the gliding wave,
Bend to stern sadness Wolfe's o'er-wearied mind.
Ah! soon the battle-crash shall wake their shades,
And bid their echoes howl; hurl o'er their rocks
The slayer and the slain, and dye with gore
This silent, solemn, loneliest, loveliest scene!

The rocks frown'd darker o'er the shoreward fleet.
First on the strand stood Wolfe. Boat followed boat,
And warrior warrior. With uplifted sword
He pointed to the rocks; and swift, and strong,
And resolute, they scaled the steepness there.
Silent, and each assisting each, they rose
From tree to tree, from cliff to cliff; and soon,
High on the summit, twenty veterans waved
Their Highland blades. Mute thousands follow'd them,
With labour infinite, and cautious tread,
And breathing, half-suppress'd; and painfully
Their slaught'ring cannon weigh'd from pine to pine.

Still dost thou sleep, proud city, unalarm'd!
Hush'd are thy streets; and by the warrior's bed
The sword is idle; and of peace restored
The matron dreaming, sees her sons unscrew
The rifle, and release the useless helm.
But pale Miranion wakes. She, love-lorn maid,
Hath stolen to the heights, unseen, unheard,
Alone, to hear the river, far below,
Murmur unseen; and to indulge fond thoughts,
Sweet wishes, fond and vain. O'er the grey rock
She bends her drooping beauty, and she thinks
How sweetly, pillow'd on his bronzèd breast,
The peasant's wife is sleeping from her toils;
How well it were to be a soldier's bride,
And couch with love and danger! Holy maid!
What if thou doff thy veil, in man's attire
To stand by Montcalm's side, a seemly page?
But virgin fear, and virgin modesty,
Chased that wild thought at once; a painful heat
Rush'd to the cheek, which never erst the blush
Of guilty shame suffused; and “Oh!” she said,
“My God, forgive me! O forgive thy child!
Support me! strengthen me! or let cold earth
Wrap poor Miranion's bosom, and the tears
Of pious sisters mourn a sinless maid!”

Her eyes are red with weeping; on her hand
Her moisten'd check reclines; silent she looks
On the dark river. “Do those shadows move?”
She rises, listens. “What strange sounds are these?”
The hum continues, deepens—hark, a step!
Men—soldiers—what are they? The foe! the foe!” The gloom
Deepen'd, the silence deepen'd.
She trembles, and her eyes are closed with fear.
What shall she do? Obey affection's voice,
And duty's mandate? And, with terror's haste,
She hurried to the camp of sleeping France.

Meantime, o'erwearied Montcalm, on his couch
Extended, sought not sleep, nor had he doff'd
His garments. But the toil of thought intense,
At length o'erpower'd, confused him. Slumbering,
He toss'd from side to side, and sent abroad
The wildly-wandering soul—a reinless steed;
Nor slept, nor waked! Upstarted stiff his locks,
By terror smitten; his bones shook. Motionless,
In gloom and might, before his troubled soul,
A power embodied stood, unspeakable
And hueless. “Sleep'st thou, Montcalm?” said a voice,
“Still, vanquish'd victor, sleep! Why wake to shame?
Sleep! Wolfe hath torn the laurel from thy brow.”

Thus spake the evil dream. Still slumber'd he,
Unhappy; and a mute, expressive tear
Stole from his eyelids o'er his swarthy cheek,
When, pale, approach'd unseen, with noiseless step,
Miranion. Fear and love had bleach'd her cheek;
And with mute, trembling, inexpressible
Emotion she beheld the man beloved!
She heard him sigh—nearer she drew—she stoop'd,
“He weeps,” she cried; “Ah, wherefore in his sleep?”
She look'd—she paused; at length, with timid hand,
She touched the hero's forehead, and she said,
“Rise, Montcalm!” Up, at once, the warrior sprang,
Confused, astonish'd, and, ere well awake,
His hand had half-undrawn the ready sword;
Then on the maid he gazed, with such a look
Of doubt and fierce surprise, as drove the blood
Back from her fading lip oppressively.
“Who—whence?” he cried, retiring; and he raised,
With outstretch'd arm, the falchion now unsheath'd.
His voice so stern (love was not in the tone)
Came on her heart like death; and, faltering,
At length she cried, “A friend to France I come!
Wolfe climbs the heights of Abraham, and seeks
The city.” Fix'd in awe, she stood unmoved;
The growing light was fearful in her eye:
He gazed upon her, never had he seen
Her face before, never a face so fair—
So mild, so sad, so innocent! She seem'd
The gentle angel of the dead, ordain'd
To bear the virgin-spirit to its home
Eternal; and if beauty could have moved
His stern, ambitious heart, sure he had loved
That heavenly pensiveness. He stood—he look'd—
He answer'd not; he turn'd in thought away.
Slow grew the light, the darkness dimly waned,
And on the mountains walk'd the dawn thro' flowers,
When Montcalm's eye shrank, dark from what it fear'd—
The banner'd cross, high on the vanquish'd heights,
O'er bright steel waving red, and England's host,
Embattled, like a crimson fortress vast,
Cresting the eminence with hostile arms.

Why bends Miranion o'er a soldier's couch?
To kiss the pillow of her warrior love.
Her heart is fill'd with joy, which, soon to fade,
Painteth her pale cheek with a cherub's glow;
And for a moment she forgets herself.
Rise, tall Miranion of the pensive smile!
Rise, stately vestal, from thy warrior's couch!
Soon shalt thou tremble o'er thy counted beads,
And, faltering, listen in thine earnest prayer,
Telling to heaven, to heaven alone, thy love;
And vainly calling every saint to save.
He is not fallen yet! But e'er that sun
Shall set and rise, one kiss, thy first and last,
On Montcalm's lip thy breaking heart shall print;
Nor shall the unfeeling taunt of prudery
Flush poor Miranion's faded cheek with shame.
“My hero!” shalt thou say, “for ever mine!
My soul in this chill kiss hath wedded thee.”
Then shalt thou grasp his hand fast, with a look
That almost might awake the illustrious dead.
But ere grief close thine eyes for ever, one
Proud spectacle, one long procession more,
Shalt thou behold—sad, slow, funereal pomp,
And nations weeping o'er thy Montcalm's bier.
The victor vanquish'd! That competitor
Worthy of Britain's Wolfe—less fortunate,
Not less heroic—doom'd alike to fall.
Immortal both! Equal their love of fame;
Their genius equal, and their scorn of death.
Then, when the mid-day torches shall no more
Cast the dim gloom of mockery on the slain;
Although no marble tells where thou are laid,
Miranion, night shall love the lonely spot,
The stars shall look in silence on its flowers,
The moon-beams there shall slumber, and the dews
Weep o'er a hapless virgin's modest grave.