In a mouldering cave where the wretched retreat, <br />Britannia sat wasted with care; <br />She mourned for her Wolfe, and exclaim'd against fate <br />And gave herself up to despair. <br />The walls of her cell she had sculptured around <br />With the feats of her favorite son; <br />And even the dust, as it lay on the ground, <br />Was engraved with the deeds he had done. <br /> <br />The sire of the Gods, from his crystalline throne, <br />Beheld the disconsolate dame, <br />And moved with her tears, he sent Mercury down, <br />And these were the tidings that came: <br />'Britannia forbear, not a sigh nor a tear <br />For thy Wolfe so deservedly loved, <br />Your tears shall be changed into triumphs of joy, <br />For thy Wolfe is not dead but removed. <br /> <br />'The sons of the East, the proud giants of old. <br />Have crept from their darksome abodes, <br />And this is the news as in Heaven it was told, <br />They were marching to war with the Gods; <br />A Council was held in the chambers of Jove, <br />And this was their final decree, <br />That Wolfe should be called to the armies above, <br />And the charge was intrusted to me. <br /> <br />'To the plains of Quebec with the orders I flew, <br />He begg'd for a moment's delay; <br />He cry'd 'Oh! forbear, let me victory hear, <br />And then thy command I'll obey.' <br />With a darksome thick film I encompass'd his eyes, <br />And bore him away in an urn, <br />Lest the fondness he bore to his own native shore, <br />Should induce him again to return.'<br /><br />Thomas Paine<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/the-death-of-general-wolfe/
