No sense of glory fires the vet'ran's breast,

With horror chill'd, and heav'n-bred awe deprest.
As, where his squadrons urg'd their course along,
Raging he travers'd the disorder'd throng,

Some British falchion sped the deathful wound,
And hew'd th' indignant chieftain to the ground;
Wedg'd in the rout the gasping hero lay,
And with faint murmur sigh'd his soul away.
To swifter flight the Gallic legions yield,

And trembling quit the long contested field;
Part hasten to the stream whose waves contain
Th' extensive limits of the fatal plain;

Part to the bulwarks, from whose lofty height
Their friends desponding view th' unequal fight.
Soon as the morrow's sun with genial ray
To the bleak climate gave returning day,
The victor's mercy Gallia's sons implore,

And trust the fickle chance of war no more;

B

Their ample gates unfold; along the strand
In silent sorrow moves the vanquish'd band;
While, flush'd with triumph, and of conquest vain,
Pours tow'rd the captive walls the British train.
Thus from their toil the glorious heroes rest,
And peaceful rapture swells in ev'ry breast;
Save that as oft the glowing tale they tell
Of such as bravely fought, or greatly fell,
WOLFE's early fate their pensive mind employs,
And manly sorrows check their rising joys.

Illustrious shade! if artless hands like mine

Could for an hero's urn the chaplet twine,

The Muse for thee should cull each op'ning bloom, And with unfading garlands deck thy tomb :

For oh! what youth, whose rev'rent feet are led

To those sad mansions of the mighty dead,
Where martial trophies in rich sculpture shew

The sacred ashes that repose below,

But, kindling at the view, for glory burns,
As on thy name his sparkling eyes he turns?
Ages to come shall thy great story hear,
And pay the pious tribute of a tear;

Thy wond'rous deeds shall vet'ran sires recite,

Thy prudence in debate, thy toils in fight;

And ev'ry warrior to the tale reply,

"Be mine like him to conquer, and to die.”

MIDDLETON HOWARD,

WADHAM COLLEGE.

THE

LOVE OF OUR COUNTRY:

A PRIZE POEM,

RECITED

IN THE THEATRE, OXFORD,

IN THE YEAR MDCCLXXI.

Εἷς οἰωνὸς ἄριτος, ἀμύνεσθαι περὶ πάτρης. Ηom.

Who fights his Country's battle,

Does in his bosom feel a golden omen
Of victory.