I

BEHIND Jacques Cartier's hills the sun sinks low

Low burn the beacon fires along the shore;

The drowsy watch dreams of his Norman home,

And dusky warriors sleep, and deem their toils are o'er.

Beneath the raven wing of sable night,

A little band, with martial fire aglow,

Sweeps down, while he who nobly leads them on

Chides every tardy hour that parts him from the foe.

Not glory's star allures that dauntless breast,

Nor lust of conquest fires that eagle eye;

For hearth and home, for King and Crown, his brand

Unsheathes at duty's call, and Wolfe will win or die.

And while no ghostly form unveils the fate

That, ere to-morrow's eve, awaits the brave,—

Love's gifts all laid aside,—he grasps his sword,

And sighs, "The paths of glory lead but to the grave."

Adown the stream, past watch and ward they glide;

And as the keel grates on the rocky shore,

Silent and stern, and lithe as roe, each Gael

Upsprings o'er crag and fell, to meet the battle's roar.

II

And had New France no arm to rule the fight,

Or guard her oriflamme with dauntless breast?

Had the great Marquis wearied of the strife,

His war-worn blade to sheathe, and claim a soldier's rest?

Deserted by a ribald court and King,—

Ruled by a shameless minion's reckless hand,—

A thousand vampires battening on her blood,—

And knaves, or boastful fools deemed noblest of the land;—

Cape Breton's capital laid with the ground,—

Acadia lost,—of Western Empire shorn,—

No friendly fleet to shield her smouldering homes,

And Stadacona's walls crumbling in sun and storm.

Such was New France;—but in her bosom glowed

That patriot fire that burned while life was there;

Not Vandreuil's iron rule could cool her love,

Nor Bigot's vile Friponne hound her to mad despair.

To arms! Grandsire and striplings seek the field;

The Censitaires obey their Seigneurs' call;

Both high and low together ply the spade,

And dainty hands weave gabions for the battered wall.

And on that morn, when like their mountain mist

The Highland plumes waved o'er the beetling height,

One sentinel stood faithful at his post,—

One watchful eye gazed wondering at the sight.

But ere the warning shot could tell the tale,

The Scottish steel found sheath within his breast;

Long may his mother wait to greet her boy;—

He sleeps with kindred brave on Abraham's lofty crest.

One cheer above! one answering shout below!

Swift ply the boats across the ebbing tide;

Victors of Louisbourg press proudly on,

And cheerily the gun toils up the mountain side.

The pass is won, and as grey morning breaks,

The living wave rolls o'er the grassy plain,—

Grass that ere noon shall reek with human blood

From heaps of dead, like weeds upheaved by storm-tost main.

III

Hark! the loud 'larum through the welkin rings;—

Down drop the sere leaves with the cannon's roar;—

The red line forms;—revenge in every eye,

For comrades slain on Montmorenci's blood-stained shore.

Firm as yon stalwart pines, that phalanx stands,

Waiting the chiefs command to deal the blow,—

And silent all, save but the mountain pipe

Yelling forth fierce defiance to the gathering foe.

And on yon ridge Guienne's fair banners claim

The spot where empire's sway will prove the prize,

And where, from hostile ashes kindly blent,

A nobler form, like wakening Phoenix will arise.

In fiery haste, from Beauport's battered shore;

From feint and bloodless field, now hurry by

La SarrÈ, Roussilon, Languedoc, BÉarn, and all

Burning from baffled foe to wrest fresh victory.

No braver sons, to bear her banners well,

Or laurels fresh to win, fair France might yield;

Oswego won, Fort-William Henry theirs,—

And noblest still, Ticonderoga's hard-fought field.

On sweeps that band beneath the rampart wall;—

On through the crowded streets and teeming gates;—

On, where Guienne has watched since morn the lines,

Where calm as coming storm the proud invader waits.

IV

Silent and stern, Montcalm rides on that morn,

Heedless of warlike shouts, or battle songs;

Victor of Carillon! thy palms may fade,

And Abraham's plains avenge Fort William Henry's wrongs.

Rank forms on rank, and as the managed hawk

Strains on its leash to swoop upon the prey,

So curbs the ardent chief his champing steed,

And longs to bid his warriors mingle in the fray.

What stays the heart that panted for the strife?

Why lags the bold Vaudreuil, when battle calls?

Why guard a thousand men our peaceful lines?

Why linger Ramesay's guns behind the sheltering walls?

"On with the charge!" he cries, and waves his sword;

One rolling cheer five thousand voices swell;

The levelled guns pour forth their leaden shower,

While thundering cannons' roar half drowns the Huron yell.

"On with the charge!" with shout and cheer they come;

No laggard there upon that field of fame.

The lurid plain gleams like a seething hell,

And every rock and tree send forth their bolts of flame.

On! on! they sweep. Uprise the waiting ranks—

Still as the grave—unmoved as granite wall;—

The foe before—the dizzy crags behind—

They fight, the day to win, or like true warriors fall.

Forward they sternly move, then halt to wait.

That raging sea of human life now near;—

"Fire!" rings from right to left,—each musket rings,

As if a thunder peal had struck the startled ear.

Again, and yet again that volley flies,—

With deadly aim the grapeshot sweeps the field;—

All levelled for the charge, the bayonets gleam,

And brawny arms a thousand claymores fiercely wield.

And down the line swells high the British cheer,

That on a future day woke Minden's plain,

And the loud slogan that fair Scotland's foes

Have often heard with dread, and oft shall hear again.

And the shrill pipe its coronach that wailed

On dark Culloden moor o'er trampled dead,

Now sounds the "Onset" that each Clansman knows,

Still leads the foremost rank, where noblest blood is shed.

V

And on that day no nobler stained the sod,

Than his, who for his country laid life down;

Who, for a mighty Empire battled there,

And strove from rival's brow to wrest the laurel crown.

Twice struck,—he recks not, but still heads the charge,

But, ah! fate guides the marksman's fatal ball:—

With bleeding breast, he claims a comrade's aid,—

"We win,—let not my soldiers see their Leader fall."

Full well he feels life's tide is ebbing fast,—

When hark! "They run; see how they run!" they cry.

"Who run?" "The foe." His eyes flash forth one gleam,

Then murmuring low he sighs, "Praise God, in peace I die."

VI

Far rolls the battle's din, and leaves its dead,

As when a cyclone through the forest cleaves;—

And the dread claymore heaps the path with slain,

As strews the biting cold the earth with autumn leaves.

The "Fleur de Lys" lies trodden on the ground,—

The slain Montcalm rests in his warrior grave,—

"All's well" resounds from tower and battlement,

And England's banners proudly o'er the ramparts wave.

Slowly the mighty war ships sail away,

To tell their country of an empire won;

But, ah! they bear the death-roll of the slain,

And all that mortal is of Britain's noblest son.

VII

With bowËd head they lay their Hero down,

And pomp and pageant crown the deathless brave;—

Loud salvos sing the soldier's lullaby,

And weeping millions bathe with tears his honored grave.

Then bright the bonfires blaze on Albion's hills,—

And rends the very sky a people's joy;—

And even when grief broods o'er the vacant chair,

The mother's heart still nobly gives her gallant boy.

And while broad England gleams with glorious light,

And merry peals from every belfry ring;—

One little village lies all dark and still,

No fires are lighted there—no battle songs they sing.

There in her lonely cot, in widow's weeds,

A mother mourns—the silent tear-drops fall;—

She too had given to swell proud England's fame,

But, ah! she gave the widow's mite—she gave her all!