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