The Virginia Gazette

On the Death of the much lamented General W O L F E.

Art is but vain, the Force of Language weak,
To paint thy Virtues, or thy Actions speak.
Had I Duche's, or Godfrey's magick Skill,
Each Line to raise, and animate at Will;
To rouze each Passion dormant in the Soul,
Point out its Object, or its Rage controul;
Then, Wolfe, some faint Resemblance should we find,
Of those great Virtues that adorn'd thy Mind.
Like Britain's Genius should'n thou then appear,
Hurling Destruction on the Gallick Rear,
While France astonish'd, trembled at thy Sight,
And plac'd her Safety in ignoble Flight.
Thy last great Scene, should melt each Briton's Heart,
And Rage and Grief alternately impart.
With Foes surrounded, 'midst the Shades of Death,
The fewer the Words that clos'd the Warrior's Breath,
"My Eye-Sight fails!---but do the French retreat?
"If they retire, I'm happy in my Fate!"
A gen'rous Chief, to whom the Hero spoke,
Cry'd, "Sir, they fly,---their Ranks entirely broke,
"Whilst thy bold Troops o'er slaughter'd Heaps advance,
"And deal due Vengeance on the Sons of France."
The pleasing Truth recalls his parting Soul,
And from his Lips the dying Accents stole,
"I'm satisfied!"---he said,---then wing'd his Way,
Guarded by Angels to celestial Day.
An awful Band! Britannia's mighty Dead
Receive to Glory his immortal Shade!
Marlbro' and Talbot hail the warlike Chief.
Halket and Howe, late Objects of our Grief,
With joyful Song conduct their welcome Guest,
To the bright Mansions of eternal Rest.
For those prepar'd, who merit just Applause,
So bravely dying in their Country's Cause.