The Plains Of Abraham.

I stood upon the Plain,         That had trembled when the slain,     Hurled their proud, defiant curses at the battle-heated foe,         When the steed dashed right and left,         Through the bloody gaps he cleft,     When the bridle-rein was broken, and the rider was laid low.         What busy feet had trod         Upon the very sod     Where I marshalled the battalions of my fancy to my aid!         And I saw the combat dire,         Heard the quick, incessant fire,     And the cannons' echoes startling the reverberating glade.         I saw them, one and all,         The banners of the Gaul     In the thickest of the contest, round the resolute Montcalm;         The well-attended Wolfe,         Emerging from the gulf     Of the battle's fiery furnace, like the swelling of a psalm.         I heard the chorus dire,         That jarred along the lyre     On which the hymn of battle rung, like surgings of the wave         When the storm, at blackest night,         Wakes the ocean in affright,     As it shouts its mighty pibroch o'er some shipwrecked vessel's grave.         I saw the broad claymore         Flash from its scabbard, o'er     The ranks that quailed and shuddered at the close and fierce attack;         When Victory gave the word,         Then Scotland drew the sword,     And with arm that never faltered drove the brave defenders back.         I saw two great chiefs die,         Their last breaths like the sigh     Of the zephyr-sprite that wantons on the rosy lips of morn;         No envy-poisoned darts,         No rancour, in their hearts,     To unfit them for their triumph over death's impending scorn.         And as I thought and gazed,         My soul, exultant, praised     The Power to whom each mighty act and victory are due,         For the saint-like Peace that smiled         Like a heaven-gifted child,     And for the air of quietude that steeped the distant view.         The sun looked down with pride,         And scattered far and wide     His beams of whitest glory till they flooded all the Plain;         The hills their veils withdrew,         Of white, and purplish blue,     And reposed all green and smiling 'neath the shower of golden rain.         Oh, rare, divinest life         Of Peace, compared with Strife!     Yours is the truest splendour, and the most enduring fame;         All the glory ever reaped         Where the fiends of battle leaped,     Is harsh discord to the music of your undertoned acclaim.