Oh, gallant Wolfe! from o'er the dark blue sea
There comes a wail--a bitter wail for thee;
Thy country mourns her warrior, true and brave,
And yearning love weeps o'er thy lowly grave,
But nothing now may break thy tranquil rest,
Nothing disturb thy calm and quiet breast;
Nor clashing arms, nor cannon's deafening roar,
Nor sorrow's wail, may ever rouse thee more.
But, when a voice, far louder than them all,
Shall bid thee rise, thou must obey the call,
And stand, bereft of earthly pride and power,
Before thy Judge. God shield thee in that hour!

Remoter from the scene, with drooping head
And nerveless arm, another warrior bled!
Death's seal upon that pallid brow was pressed;
His icy hand lay on that heaving breast;
But thoughts of victory lent no soothing balm
To cheer the spirit of the proud Montcalm!
He lived to see his bravest followers die;
He lived to see his troops disbanded fly;
Nor longer cared to live, but welcomed death,
And with a smile resigned his fleeting breath;
Stretched his proud limbs, without a sigh or groan,
And death had claimed the hero for his own.

The strife was o'er, the dreadful combat past;
The echoing hills had found repose at last;
Carnage had done its work on every side,