Another volley followed, and then a furious clattering fire that lasted but a minute or two. When the smoke rose, a miserable sight was revealed the ground cumbered with dead and wounded, the advancing masses stopped short and turned into a frantic mob, shouting, cursing, gesticulating. The order was given to charge. Then over the field rose the British cheer, mixed with the fierce yell of the Highland slogan. Some of the corps pushed forward with the bayonet; some advanced firing. The clansmen drew their broadswords and dashed on, keen and swift as bloodhounds. At the English right, though the attacking column was broken to pieces, a fire was still kept up, chiefly, it seems, by sharpshooters from the bushes and cornfields, where they had lain for an hour or more. Here Wolfe himself led the charge, at the head of the Louisbourg grenadiers. A shot shattered his wrist. He wrapped his handkerchief about it and kept on. Another shot struck him, and he still advanced, when a third lodged in his breast. He staggered, and sat on the ground. Lieutenant Brown, of the grenadiers, one Henderson, a volunteer in the same company, and a private soldier, aided by an officer of artillery who ran to join them, carried him in their arms to the rear. He begged them to lay him down. They did so, and asked if he would have a surgeon. "There's no need," he answered; "it's all over with me." A moment after, one of them cried out: "They run; see how they run!" "Who run?" Wolfe demanded, like a man roused from sleep. "The enemy, sir. Egad, they give way everywhere!" "Go, one of you, to Colonel Burton," returned the dying man; "tell him to march Webb's regiment down to Charles River, to cut off their retreat from the bridge." Then, turning on his side, he murmured, "Now, God be praised, I will die in peace!" and in a few moments his gallant soul had fled.

Montcalm, still on horseback, was borne with the tide of fugitives towards the town. As he approached the walls a shot passed through his body. He kept his seat; two soldiers supported him, one on each side, and led his horse through the St. Louis gate. On the open space within, among the excited crowd, were several women, drawn, no doubt, by eagerness to know the result of the fight. One of them recognized him, saw the streaming blood, and shrieked, "O mon Dieu! mon Dieu! le Marquis est tué !" "It's nothing, it's nothing," replied the deathstricken man; "don't be troubled for me, my good friends." ("Ce n'est rien, ce n'est rien; ne vous affligez pas pour moi, mes bonnes amies.")

George Henry Boker.

BORN in Philadelphia, Penn., 1823.

PAOLO AND FRANCESCA.

[Francesca Da Rimini: A Tragedy.-Plays and Poems. 1856.]

SCENE.-Rimini. The Garden of the Castle.

PAOLO

Our poem waits.

I have been reading while you talked with Ritta.

How did you get her off?

She seems to stand between me and the light.

And now for the romance. Where left we off?

FRAN. Where Lancelot and Queen Guenevra strayed

Along the forest, in the youth of May.

You marked the figure of the birds that sang

Their melancholy farewell to the sun—

Rich in his loss, their sorrow glorified

Like gentle mourners o'er a great man's grave.

Was it not there? No, no; 'twas where they sat

Down on the bank, by one impulsive wish

That neither uttered.

PAOLO. [Turning over the book.] Here it is. [Reads.]

Nay, do not; I can wait, if you desire.

PAOLO. My dagger frets me; let me take it off. [Rises.]

In thoughts of love, we'll lay our weapons by.

[Lays aside his dagger, and sits again.]

Draw closer: I am weak in voice to-day. [Reads.]
"So sat Guenevra and Sir Lancelot,

Under the blaze of the descending sun,
But all his cloudy splendors were forgot.
Each bore a thought, the only secret one,
Which each had hidden from the other's heart,
That with sweet mystery well-nigh overrun.
Anon, Sir Lancelot, with gentle start,

Put by the ripples of her golden hair,
Gazing upon her with his lips apart.

He marvelled human thing could be so fair;
Essayed to speak; but, in the very deed,

His words expired of self-betrayed despair.
Little she helped him, at his direst need,

Roving her eyes o'er hill, and wood, and sky,
Peering intently at the meanest weed;

Ay, doing aught but look in Lancelot's eye.
Then, with the small pique of her velvet shoe,
Uprooted she each herb that blossomed nigh;
Or strange wild figures in the dust she drew;
Until she felt Sir Lancelot's arm around
Her waist, upon her cheek his breath like dew.
While through his fingers timidly he wound
Her shining locks; and, haply, when he brushed
Her ivory skin, Guenevra nearly swound:
For where he touched, the quivering surface blushed,
Firing her blood with most contagious heat,
Till brow, cheek, neck, and bosom, all were flushed.
Each heart was listening to the other beat.

As twin-born lilies on one golden stalk,

Drooping with Summer, in warm languor meet,

So met their faces. Down the forest walk

Sir Lancelot looked-he looked east, west, north, south

No soul was nigh, his dearest wish to balk:

She smiled; he kissed her full upon the mouth."

[Kisses FRANCESCA.]

I'll read no more! [Starts up, dashing down the book.]

FRAN.

PAOLO. The love?

Its direst agonies and

And dost thou regret?

No, no! I'd dare it all again,
meanest fears,

For that one kiss. Away with fond remorse!

Here, on the brink of ruin, we two stand;

Lock hands with me, and brave the fearful plunge!

Thou canst not name a terror so profound

That I will look or falter from. Be bold!

I know thy love-I knew it long ago—

Trembled and fled from it. But now I clasp

The peril to my breast, and ask of thee

A kindred desperation.

FRAN. [Throwing herself into his arms.] Take me all,Body and soul! The women of our clime

Do never give away but half a heart:

I have not part to give, part to withhold,

In selfish safety. When I saw thee first,

Riding alone amid a thousand men,

Sole in the lustre of thy majesty,
And Guido da Polenta said to me,

"Daughter, behold thy husband!" with a bound
My heart went forth to meet thee. He deceived,

He lied to me-ah! that's the aptest word-
And I believed. Shall I not turn again,

And meet him, craft with craft? Paolo, love,
Thou'rt dull-thou'rt dying like a feeble fire
Before the sunshine. Was it but a blaze,

A flash of glory, and a long, long night?

PAOLO. No, darling, no! You could not bend me back; My course is onward; but my heart is sick

Joy at all seasons, changes night to day,

Makes sorrow smile, plucks out the barbèd dart

Of moaning anguish, pours celestial balm
In all the gaping wounds of earth, and lulls
The nervous fancies of unsheltered fear
Into a slumber sweet as infancy's!

On love that laughs at the impending sword,
And puts aside the shield of caution: cries,
To all its enemies, "Come, strike me now!-
VOL. VIII.-8

Now, while I hold my kingdom, while my crown
Of amaranth and myrtle is yet green,
Undimmed, unwithered; for I cannot tell
That I shall e'er be happier!" Dear Paolo
Would you lapse down from misery to death,
Tottering through sorrow and infirmity ?
Or would you perish at a single blow,
Cut off amid your wildest revelry,
Falling among the wine-cups and the flowers,
And tasting Bacchus when your drowsy sense
First gazed around eternity? Come, love!
The present whispers joy to us; we'll hear
The voiceless future when its turn arrives.
PAOLO. Thou art a siren. Sing, forever sing!
Hearing thy voice, I cannot tell what fate
Thou hast provided when the song is o'er;-
But I will venture it.

FRAN.

In, in, my love! [Exeunt.]

[PEPE steals from behind the bushes.] PEPE. O, brother Lanciotto!-O, my stars!If this thing lasts, I simply shall go mad! [Laughs, and rolls on the ground.]

O Lord! to think my pretty lady puss

Had tricks like this, and we ne'er know of it!

I tell you, Lanciotto, you and I

Must have a patent for our foolery!

"She smiled; he kissed her full upon the mouth!"

There's the beginning, where's the end of it?

O poesy! debauch thee only once,

And thou'rt the greatest wanton in the world!
O cousin Lanciotto-ho, ho, ho! [Laughing.]
Can a man die of laughter? Here we sat;
Mistress Francesca so demure and calm;
Paolo grand, poetical, sublime!—

Eh! what is this? Paolo's dagger? Good!

Here is more proof, sweet cousin Broken-back.
"In thoughts of love, we'll lay our weapons by!"

[Mimicking Paolo.]

That's very pretty! Here's its counterpart:
In thoughts of hate, we'll pick them up again!

[Takes the dagger.]

Now for my soldier, now for crook-backed Mars!

Ere long all Rimini will be ablaze.

He'll kill me? Yes: what then? That's nothing new,
Except to me: I'll bear for custom's sake.
More blood will follow; like the royal sun,
I shall go down in purple. Fools for luck;
The proverb holds like iron. I must run,
Ere laughter smother me.-O, ho, ho, ho!
[Exit, laughing.]