Death of General Wolfe

To the Publisher of the Pennsylvania Magazine

Set to Music by a gentleman of this country, the words by Atlanticus

In a mouldering cave, where the wretched retreat,
Britannia sat wasted with care.
She wept for her Wolfe, then exclaim’d against fate,
And gave herself up to despair.
The walls of her cell she had sculptur’d around
With exploits of her favorite son;
And even the dust as it lay on the ground,
Was engrav’d with some deeds he had done.

II

The sire of the gods from his crystalline throne,
Beheld the disconsolate dame;
And mov’d at her tears, he sent Mercury down,
And these were the tidings that came:
Britannia forbear, not a sigh, not a tear
For thy Wolfe so deservedly lov’d;
Your grief shall be changed into triumphs of joy,
For Wolfe is not dead but remov’d.

III

The sons of the earth, the proud giants of old,
Have broke from their darksome abodes;
And such is the news, that in Heaven ’tis told,
They’re marching to war with the gods.
A council was held in the chamber of Jove,
And this was the final decree,
That Wolfe should be call’d to the armies above,
And the charge was intrusted to me.

IV

To the plains of Quebec with the orders I flew,
He begg’d for a moment’s delay;
And cried, O forbear! Let me victory hear,
And then the command I’ll obey.
With a darkening film I encompass’d his eyes,
And convey’d him away in an urn,
Lest the fondness he bore to his own native shore,
Should tempt him again to return.