The DEATH of GENERAL WOLF

In a mould'ring cave, where the wretched retreat, Britannia sat wasted with care; She wept for her WOLF, then exclaim'd against fate; And gave herself up to despair. The walls of her cell were insculptur'd around With the exploits of her favourite son; And even the dust as it lay on the ground, Was engrav'd with the deeds he had done.

The sire of the gods, from his chrystiline throne, Beheld his disconsolate dame; And mov'd with her fate, he sent Mercury down, And these were the tidings that came. Britannia forbear, not a figh, nor a tear, For thy Wolfe so deservedly lov'd; Your griefs shall be chang'd into triumphs of joy, For thy Wolfe is not dead, but remov'd.

The sons of the earth, the proud giants of old, Have broke from their darksome abodes, And such is the news as in heav'n it is told, They are marching to war with the gods; A council was held in the chamber of Jove, Where they came to this final decree, That Wolfe should be call'd to the armies above, And the charge was intrusted to me.

To the plains of Quebec with these orders I flew; He beg'd for a moment's delay, He cry'd, Oh! forbear, let me victory hear, And then thy commands I'll obey: With a dark'ning film I encompass'd his eyes, And convey'd him away in an arm; Left the fondness he bore for his own native shore Should persuade him again to return.