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.