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.