SEPTEMBER 13, 1759.
Amidst the clamour of exulting joys,
Which triumph forces from the patriot heart,
Grief dares to mingle her soul-piercing voice,
And quells the raptures which from pleasure start.
O Wolfe! to thee a streaming flood of woe
Sighing we pay, and think e’en conquest dear;
Quebec in vain shall teach our breasts to glow,
Whilst thy sad fate extorts the heart-wrung tear.
Alive, the foe thy dreadful vigour fled,
And saw thee fall with joy-pronouncing eyes:
Yet they shall know thou conquerest, though dead,
Since from thy tomb a thousand heroes rise.
EPITAPH
ON EDWARD PURDON.[42]
Here lies poor Ned Purdon, from misery freed,
Who long was a booksellers’ hack;
He led such a damnable life in this world,
I don’t think he’ll wish to come back.