Death Of Wolfe.

"They run! they run!" - "Who run?"    Not they     Who faced that decimating fire     As coolly as if human ire         Were rooted from their hearts;     They run, while he who led the way     So bravely on that glorious day,     Burns for one word with keen desire         Ere waning life departs!     "They run! they run!" - "Who run?" he cried,     As swiftly to his pallid brow,     Like crimson sunlight upon snow,         The anxious blood returned;     "The French! the French!" a voice replied,     When quickly paled life's ebbing tide,     And though his words were weak and low         His eye with valour burned.     "Thank God!    I die in peace," he said;     And calmly yielding up his breath,     There trod the shadowy realms of death         A good man and a brave;     Through all the regions of the dead,     Behold his spirit, spectre-led,     Crowned with the amaranthine wreath         That blooms not for the slave.