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Sad, though I wept the friend, the lover chang'd,
Till from thy pity, love, and shelter thrown,
"Oh! righteous Heav'n! 'twas then my tortur'd soul First gave to wrath unlimited controul! Adieu the silent look! the streaming eye!
The murmur'd plaint! the deep heart-heaving sigh!
And pale in blood he sleeps, to wake no more!
"Unhappy youth! while yon pale crescent glows To watch on silent Nature's deep repose,
Thy sleepless spirit, breathing from the tomb,
Roll the dim eye, and wave the paly hand!
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
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?
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!
When he sunk in her arms....the poor wounded
THE last, the fatal hour is come
I hear the dead note of the drum,
The bell has toll'd; it shakes my heart;
The trumpet speaks thy name;
And must my Gilderoy depart
To bear a death of shame!
No bosom trembles for thy doom;
No mourner wipes a tear;
The gallows' foot is all thy tomb,
The sledge is all thy bier!