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THE WOUNDED HUSSAR.
Along the banks of the dark rolling Danube,
Fair Adelaid walk’d when the battle was o'er;
O where hast thou wander’d my dearest lover?
Where dost thou welter and bleed on the shore?
The voice which I near, is it Henry that sigh'd!
All mournfull she hasten'd, nor wander'd she far,
When bleeding and low on the heath she espied,
By the light of the moon, her poor wounded. Hussar.
From his warm bosom the blood was streaming
Bale was his visage, deep mark’d with a scar;
Dim was that eye, once expressively beaming,
That melted in love and that kindled in war!
O smote was poor Adelaid’s heart at the fight!
How bitter she wept o’er the victim of war!
Hast thou come, my fond love, this sorrowful night,
To cheer the lone heart of your wounded Hussar?
I hope thou shalt live kind mercy relieving.
She laid, while, alas The most sorely did 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 falt’ring tongue scarcely murmur'd Adieu!
Till he sunk in her arms, her poor wounded Hussar!
FINIS.
