« PreviousContinue »
Sad, though I wept the friend, the lover chang'd,
“Oh! righteous Heav'n! 'twas then my tortur'd soul
is o'er, And pale in blood he sleeps, to wake no more!
6 Tis done! the flame of heat no longer burns; Nature relents; but, ah! too late returns! Why does my soul this gush of fondness feel? Trembling and faint, I drop the guilty steel! Cold on my heart the hand of terror lies; And shades of horror close my languid eyes .....
« Oh! 'twas a deed of Murder's deepest grain! Could B..........k's soul so true to wrath remain? A friend long true, a once fond lover fell ..... Where Love was foster’d, could not Pity dwell?
“ Unhappy youth! while yon pale crescent glows To watch on silent Nature's deep repose,
Thy sleepless spirit, breathing from the tomb,
“ Soon may this fluttering spark of vital flame Forsake its languid melancholy frame! Soon may these
eyes their trembling lustre close, Welcome the dreamless night of long repose! Soon
may this woe-worn spirit seek the bourne Where, lull'd to slumber, Grief forgets to mourn!" THE WOUNDED HUSSAR,
ALONE to the banks of the dark-rolling Danube
Fair Adelaide hied when the battle was o'er:
O whither, she cried, hast thou wander'd, my lover;
Or here dost thou welter, and bleed on the shore?
What voice did I hear? 'twas my Henry that sigh’d;
All mournful she hasten’d, nor wander'd she far, When bleeding, and low, on the heath she descried,
By the light of the moon her poor wounded Hussar!
From his bosom that heav'd, the last torrent was
streaming, And pale was his visage, deep mark'd with a scar, And dim was that eye, once expressively beaming,
That melted in love, and that kindled in war!
How smit was poor Adelaide's heart at the sight?
How bitter she wept o'er the victim of war? Hast thou come, my fond Love, this last sorrowful night,
To cheer the lone heart of your wounded Hussar?
Thou shalt live, she replied, Heav'n's mercy relieving,
Each anguishing wound shall forbid me to mourn! Ah, no! the last pang in my bosom is heaving!
No light of the morn shall to Henry return!
Thou charmer of life, ever tender and true!
Ye babes of my love that await me afar ..... His faultering tongue scarce could murmur adieu, When he sunk in her arms....the poor wounded
The last, the fatal hour is come
That bears my love from me;
I mark the gallows tree!
The bell has tolld; it shakes my heart;
The trumpet speaks thy name;
To bear a death of shame!
No bosom trembles for thy doom;
No mourner wipes a tear;
The sledge is all thy bier!