Pierces the depths, and rends the vaulted sky.
'Tis the last struggle, for the beating drum
Proclaims the conflict o'er, the victory won.
The French in wild dismay and horror yield,
And leave the British masters of the field.

Far in the rear a dying warrior lay,
While from his breast the life-blood ebbed away;
Attendants bent around to staunch the tide
That flowed in torrents from his wounded side;
With wild convulsions came each panting-breath,
And those proud features wore the hue of death.
His lips were sealed, his beaming eyes were dim,
And strangely quivered every outstretched limb;
Unconscious now he seemed of love or hate,
Unconscious now his spirit seemed to wait
The awful summons that should bid it fly
To worlds unknown, unseen by human eye.
He seemed like one already with the dead;
When, lo! he started--raised his drooping head;
With dying hand he grasped his trusty blade,
With kindling eye the battle-field surveyed,
Heard the triumphant shout, "They run! they run!"
Knew that the field was gained, the victory won.
"Who run?" he cried, with wildly throbbing heart,
With gushing breast, and livid lips apart.
"The French! the French!"--no more that warrior heard;
It was enough for him, that single word;
"I die contented!" and his youthful head
Fell feebly back; the noble soul had fled.