The Black-bird/Death of General Wolfe

by Thomas Paine

For other versions of this work, see The Death of Wolfe ('In a mouldering cave, a wretched retreat').

Death of General Wolfe.

In a mouldring 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 favourite 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 chrystaline 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.

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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