THE WOUNDED HUSSAR. ALONE to the banks of the dark-rolling Danube Fair Adelaide hied when the battle was o'er: Oh 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 faltering tongue scarce could murmur adieu, When hesunk in her arms the poor wounded Hussar! GILDEROY. THE last, the fatal hour is come, That bears my love from me: I hear the dead note of the drum, I mark the gallows tree! 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; The gallows' foot is all thy tomb, The sledge is all thy bier! Oh, Gilderoy! bethought we then So soon, so sad, to part, When first, in Roslin's lovely glen, You triumph'd o'er my heart? Your locks they glitter'd to the sheen, Your hunter garb was trim; And graceful was the ribbon green That bound your manly limb! Ah! little thought I to deplore These limbs in fetters bound; Or hear, upon thy scaffold floor, The midnight hammer sound. Ye cruel, cruel, that combin'd The guiltless to pursue; My Gilderoy was ever kind, He could not injure you! A long adieu! but where shall fly Thy widow all forlorn, When every mean and cruel eye Regards my woe with scorn? Yes! they will mock thy widow's tears, And hate thine orphan boy; Alas! his infant beauty wears The form of Gilderoy! Then will I seek the dreary mound That wraps thy mouldering clay; And weep and linger on the ground, I |