WHAT theme propitious to the lay; What gallant hero fhall we choose, Whose name the founding chord shall sway, What chief in Britain's martial train, Has fame with palm victorious crown'd, The searchful muse shall ne'er descry To confecrate with deathlefs fame. II. Where great ST. LAWRENCE rolls its awful flood, That veils the horrors of the hoftile land. Soon Soon CANADA Confefs'd his warlike might, III. Now lights his vengeance on the daftard foe- (Whilft death stood glaring on his crimson'd fhield) Fill'd ev'ry trembling Dardan heart with woe. Thick as loud whirlwinds ftrew the fading leaves, Along the autumnal plain, Array'd in arms, he fell'd the Gallic chiefs; A welt'ring breathless train. IV. What shall Britannia's wrath appease, And with just rage her champions fire? * When the warm fanguin'd current stream'd * The plains near Quebec, where WOLFE engaged and routed the French, are called Abraham's Plains. Nought Nought but the trumpet's martial found, The thund'ring fteed that beats the ground, V. The deftin'd hour at length appears, The hills around With joy refound, Mounting from his deep abode, To Albion tells the aufpicious war; VI. But while fuperior to all fear, With his bold ranks the hero drove, Full Full to his breast with fatal speed, Took its unerring way, Down fell great Wolfe amidft the dead, " How goes the fight?" he cries, (For round his head Grim death was spread And dim'd his rolling eyes.) A gen'rous friend reply'd, Such are the chiefs that merit fair renown, And follow bold where glory leads the way! Such are the chiefs that grace a monarch's crown, And from the muse demand th' immortal lay! Chiefs that from Albion's billow-beaten fhore, Can rifque the perils of th' Atlantic flood, And dauntless ride thro' fields bedew'd with gore, To bathe their youthful arms in Gallic blood! Proud in the caufe of honour to expire, To ftem the onset of the hoftile band; And dare the deep-mouth'd cannon's thund'rous fire, To crown with joy Britannia's happy land. Tho' Tho' Wolfe fhall fhine in flaming arms no more, Now thron'd in blifs above the cloudless skies; Cease, O ye fons of Britain, to deplore, Whilst Brunswick reigns, yet other Wolfes shall rife! LE GY E L то тНЕ Memory of THEOPHILUS GREW, A. M. Profeffor of Mathematics in the College of PHILADELPHIA. W HY will soft forrow thus o'erwhelm my foul, And heart-felt anguish ev'ry thought control? To scenes of woe why will the muse retire, And cull fad-founding accents for the lyre? What shade neglected asks the gentle tear, To bathe in grief the long forgotten bier ? 'Tis GREW defcends unheeded to the grave, With no libation of Caftalia's wave. What |