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So ſhe whiſper'd a prayer-clos'd her eyes, But the phantom ſtill haunted her pillow, While in terror the echod his cries, As ſtruggling he funk in a billow, far, far at ſea.

The Death of Wolfe

In a mouldering cave, a wretched retreat, Britannia fat waſted with care; She wept for her Wolfe, then exclain'd against F And gave herſelf up to deſpair, The walls of her cell he had ſculptur'd around, With th' exploits of her favorite ſon, Nay, even the duit as it lay on the ground, Was engray'd with ſome deeds be bad done.

The fire of the gods, from his chryſtaline throne, Beheld the diſconſolate dame, Being mov'd with her tears, ſent Mercury down, And theſe were the tidings that came: Britannia, forbear, not a ſigh nor a tear, For thy Wolfe, ſo deſervedly lov'd; Thy grief ſhall be chang'd into tumults of joy, For Wolfe is not dead, but remov'd.

The ſons of the earth, the proud giants of old, have ed from their darkſome abodes; And ſuch is the news that is heaven is told, they are marching to war with the gods. A council was held in the chamber of Jove, And this was their final decree, That Wolfe ſhould be called to the army above, And the charge was entruſted to me.