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.