'They run! they run!'-'Who run?' Not they <br />Who faced that decimating fire <br />As coolly as if human ire <br />Were rooted from their hearts; <br />They run, while he who led the way <br />So bravely on that glorious day, <br />Burns for one word with keen desire <br />Ere waning life departs! <br /> <br />'They run! they run!'-'Who run?' he cried, <br />As swiftly to his pallid brow, <br />Like crimson sunlight upon snow, <br />The anxious blood returned; <br />'The French! the French!' a voice replied, <br />When quickly paled life's ebbing tide, <br />And though his words were weak and low <br />His eye with valour burned. <br /> <br />'Thank God! I die in peace,' he said; <br />And calmly yielding up his breath, <br />There trod the shadowy realms of death <br />A good man and a brave; <br />Through all the regions of the dead, <br />Behold his spirit, spectre-led, <br />Crowned with the amaranthine wreath <br />That blooms not for the slave.<br /><br />Charles Sangster<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/death-of-wolfe/
