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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 hastened, 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 heaved, the last torrent was
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
To cheer the lone heart of your wounded Hussar?
Thou shalt live, she replied, Heaven'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,
love from me:
I hear the dead note of the drum,
I mark the gallows tree !
The bell has tolld; it shakes
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 ;