Well does the poet give the palm to moral excellence! But it is from the lips of a successful soldier, cradled in war, the very pink of warlike heroism, that we are taught to appreciate the Fame of literature, which, though less elevated than that from disinterested beneficence, is truer and more permanent than any bloody Glory. I allude to Wolfe, conqueror of Quebec, who has attracted a larger share of romantic interest than any other of the gallant generals in English history. We behold him, yet young in years, at the head of an adventurous expedition, destined to prostrate the French empire in Canada,--guiding and encouraging the firmness of his troops in unaccustomed difficulties,--awakening their personal attachment by his kindly suavity, and their ardor by his own example,--climbing the precipitous steeps which conduct to the heights of the strongest fortress on the American continent,--there, under its walls, joining in deadly conflict,--wounded,--stretched upon the field,--faint from loss of blood,--with sight already dimmed,--his life ebbing rapidly,--cheered at last by the sudden cry, that the enemy is fleeing in all directions,--and then his dying breath mingling with the shouts of victory. An eminent artist has portrayed this scene of death in a much admired picture. History and Poetry have dwelt upon it with peculiar fondness. Such is the Glory of arms! Happily there is preserved to us a tradition of this day which affords the gleam of a truer Glory. As the commander, in his boat, floated down the current of the St. Lawrence, under cover of night, in the enforced silence of a military expedition, to effect a landing at an opportune promontory, he was heard repeating to himself, in subdued voice, that poem of exquisite charm,--then only recently given to mankind, now familiar as a household word wherever the mother tongue of Gray is spoken,--the "Elegy in a Country Churchyard." Strange and unaccustomed prelude to the discord of battle! As the ambitious warrior finished the recitation, he said to his companions, in low, but earnest tone, that he "would rather be the author of that poem than take Quebec."[219] He was right. The Glory of that victory is already dying out, like a candle in the socket. The True Glory of the poem still shines with star-bright, immortal beauty. [219] Grahame, History of the United States, Vol. IV. pp. 51, 52.