Wolfe had gained the Plains of Abraham
Ere the slumbering sun uprose,
Formed his lines, and calmly waited
The onslaught of England’s foes.
The September sun all golden
Rose upon the glorious scene,
Lighting up the hills far distant,
And the mighty murmuring stream;
Touching with peaceful, glowing fingers
Wall and tower and citadel;
Toying along the smoking cannon,
And ramparts torn by shot and shell.
It played along Wolfe’s Highland clans,
Those kilted, plaided, fearless men
From Scotland’s heathery hills afar,
And Lowland vale, and loch, and glen.
It burst on England’s lines of scarlet—
Those living walls glowed like a flame—
And flashed along their bristling steel,
Resistless all in war’s dread game.
Oh, it was a sight most glorious,
Those silent lines abiding there
In the glad light of that fair morning,
Terribly grand, and yet so fair.
Meanwhile, from Beauport and Point Lévis,
Wolfe’s besieging batteries roared;
Shaking the doomed and tottering town,
As on the citadel they poured
A storm of iron, like a torrent,
Rending and smashing everywhere;
Filling the heroic defenders
With dread suffering and despair.
And their calamity but deepens—
A breathless messenger appears,
And news of sudden, dreadful import
Falls upon their startled ears,
As they learn with dread amazement
Wolfe has climbed to Abraham’s Plains,
And has made his dispositions
With lightning strategy and pains.
But Montcalm, the heroic Montcalm,
Though o’erwhelmèd by surprise,
Issues swift his ringing orders
As from point to point he flies.
And there was blaring then of trumpets,
And the roar of trampling feet,
And tumultuous preparations
Their stern awaiting foes to meet.
Ha! they issue forth in swift, hot haste,
And form upon the noble plain,
A chivalry worthy any cause,
Their country’s laurels to maintain.
Now they advance in swift array,
Seven thousand Frenchmen side by side;
Rolling upon their intrepid foes,
They come, they come in undaunted pride.
The issue is half a continent,
But unmoved as if on parade,
Wolfe’s valiant line awaiteth there,
Invincible and undismayed.
Aye, tumultuously the French come on
To sweep the British from the plain,
And all along their furious lines
Burst sheets of blinding smoke and flame.
And as crash on crash of musketry
Leaped in fierce incessant roar,
The French continued to advance,
And a murderous fire to pour
On Wolfe’s intrepid, impassive lines,
That stood there awaiting the word;
And obeying, even unto death,
Not a man there flinched or stirred.
What, still unmoved the British line?
Though ghastly, gory gaps are torn
Through those gallant ranks unmovable,
And of many a hero shorn?
Still, still unheeding, impassive still?
And no answering, no reply?
And Montcalm’s ceaseless volleying lines
Are drawing very, very nigh.