'Twas she thy God-like Russell's bosom steel'd
With confidence untam'd, in his last breath
Stern-smiling. She, with calm composure, held
The patriot axe of Sidney, edg'd with death.
Smit with the warmth of her impulsive flame,
Wolfe's gallant virtue flies to worlds a-far,
Emulous to pluck fresh wreaths of well-earn'd fame
From the grim frowning brow of laurel'd war.
'Twas she, that on the morn of direful birth,
Bared thy young bosom to the fatal blow,
Lamented Armytage! — the bleeding youth!
O bathe him in the pearly caves below,
Ye Nereids; and ye Nymphs of Camus hoar,
Weep — for ye oft have seen him on your haunted shore.