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THE DEATH OF WOLFE.
In a mouldering cave, a 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 th' exploits of her favorite son;
Nay, even the dust, as it lay on the ground,
Was engrav'd with some deeds he had done.
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 th' exploits of her favorite son;
Nay, even the dust, as it lay on the ground,
Was engrav'd with some deeds he had done.
The sire of the gods, from his crystalline throne,
Beheld the disconsolate dame,
And, mov'd with her tears, sent Mercury down,
And these were the tidings that came:
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.
Beheld the disconsolate dame,
And, mov'd with her tears, sent Mercury down,
And these were the tidings that came:
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.
