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Britannia, forbear, not a sigh nor a tear
 For thy Wolfe, so deservedly lov’d;
Thy grief shall be chang'd into tumults of joy,
 For Wolfe is not dead, but remov’d.

The sons of the earth, the proud giants of old,
 Have fled from their darksome abodes;
And such is the news, that in heaven is told,
 They are marching to war with the gods!
A council was held in the chamber of Jove,
 And this was their final decree,
That Wolfe should be call'd to the army above,
 And the charge was entrusted to me.

To the plains of Quebec with the orders I flew,
 Wolfe begg’d for a moment's delay:
He cry’d, Oh forbear! let me victory hear,
 And then the command I’ll obey.
With a dark’ning film I encompass’d his eyes,
 And bore him away in an urn,
Lest the fondness he bore to his own native shore
 Might tempt him again to return.

 

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Lament for General Wolfe

  Britons, loyal, stout and bold,
  Who could never be controll’d
By the French—See the bravest of his sex,
  British Wolfe, stout and good,
  Made the rivers run with blood,
 At the glorious conquest of Quebec.