A Canadian Epic, XVI–XXXIX

Before my eyes a vision rises bright, And, in the vision, I can clearly see The actions re-enacted of that fight; And grand indeed the sight appears to me. Repictured thus, I gaze upon the scene, And meditate again on what has been.

Ere yet the light had broken on that morn, Before the sun had shed his rays around, While blackest darkness heralded the dawn, The little fleet had left its anchor-ground; With not a lantern showing light or gleam, It floated silently adown the stream.

Within the flagship, weakened by the pain Of recent fever, Wolfe reclining lay Unfit to bear the war's fatigue and strain, He yet was armed and ready for the fray. Forgetful of his pain and suffering, He thought but of his country and his king.

His duty bade him fight, and he would fight; His country bade him win, and he would win If bravery could put the foe to flight. If courage and a sturdy heart within Could win the day, he feared not the event; His men were veterans on victory bent.

Yet, as he lay upon his couch at rest Among his officers, he seemed to be Prescient of his fate; for he addressed His friends in verses from an Elegy, And to this line a special accent gave: "The paths of glory lead but to the grave."

Foreknowledge of his fate perchance impressed This truth upon him. Glory's path would lead Him to the grave that day, and there at rest, No longer pain or glory would he heed. Full well might these appear a mockery To him who soon would meet eternity.

And who will blame him if his thought recurred, At such a time, to England and the maid Beloved, to whom he gave his plighted word Ere parting? Who will wonder at the shade Of sorrow darkling on his troubled brow, As he reflects on what may not be now?

A vision bright, of home and happiness, Of calm domestic joy, before him lies. One moment gazes he—his hands hard press His forehead, and the hardy soldier sighs— One moment only, then he turns away, Prepared to lead his army to the fray.

Below the city, anchored by the shore, The fleet is floating; and in silent speed, The soldiers land, Wolfe leading in the fore. And, if of urging there were any need, His fearless mien and proud determination Would banish every thought of hesitation.

But fear is foreign to each noble heart That follows him, and in the breast of none Has doubt or hesitation any part; Let him but lead, and they will follow on. They listen to his orders and obey; He fears not death or danger—why should they?

Above them tow'rs the cliff precipitous, Well-nigh impassable its steep ascent. How hard the task and how laborious To scale the cliff! Yet forth the order went. Then, in the darkness, stealthily they creep, And silently approach the rocky steep.

Like Indians soft stealing on the trail Of hated foes, intent upon surprise, And silent moving lest their project fail, When death in premature detection lies; So noiselessly that army scaled the height, While darkness hid them from the foemen's sight.

At length they reach the summit unattacked, Then form, and silent march upon the plain. And now they learn the foe has seen their act, For onward towards them comes his shining train. The day has broke, the sun now brightly shines, And each can plainly see the other's lines.

Then from the French battalions comes the fire Of musketry, and bullets hissing loud Pierce through the English ranks, yet but inspire The veterans to vengeance, and their blood Boils in their veins. Yet silently they still March on, awaiting their commander's will.

At length is heard the general's command To fire. A fearful volley from their ranks Then belches forth, and, sweeping o'er the land, The bullets carry ruin to the Franks. In deep dismay the Frenchmen hesitate One moment; then, with valour desperate,

They turn again, restrengthened, to the fight. But fruitless all the bravery they show; Repulsed anew, ere long they take to flight, Pursued by English bullets as they go. And from the time the battle first begun, But fifteen minutes passed till it was won.

But deadly was the devastation wrought On either side, and dearly was the day Of glory by the English army bought. Thrice bullet-pierced their young commander lay. He lived to hear the cry of victory, Then yielded up his spirit willingly.

Good reason had the conquerors to mourn; Yet had the vanquished greater cause than they. The day was lost, and sadly had they borne Their leader from the battle-field away. Beloved Montcalm, the generous and brave, Upon that field had found a bloody grave.

And what of her who sat in silent grief, And listened vainly for the step of him Whose coming only could afford relief, And stay the tears in which her eyes will swim? Ah! History has nought to say of her, Nor speaks it of the sorrow she must bear.

The full extent of war's resulting curse Is never known: the country's gain or loss Is reckoned by its victory or reverse, The dead are numbered—but the heavy cross Of suffering, which womankind must bear, Is reckoned not among the deeds of war.

Nor can it be: while war is arbiter Between the nations, private suffering Must count for nought; affection must defer To duty, whatso'er the pain it bring. The soldier must obey the bugle call; The wife must weep, and pray he may not fall.

While war is arbiter—but must it be Forever arbiter? Will not the day Of lasting peace dawn ever? Will not ye, Ye Christian nations, raise your voice, and stay The march of war throughout the universe; And rid you of its agony and curse?

It lies not in your pow'r to order those, The nations still uncivilized, to cease From war, and, if they make themselves your foes, Ye must resist; yet can ye order peace Among yourselves. And, sure, ye Christian lands Would wash the blood of war from off your hands!

Slow, slow, the march of Christianity, Yet sure—more sure because its march is slow; And settled now in peace and amity Are issues which, but fifty years ago, Had been the cause of bloodshed and of strife, And cost each country many a noble life.