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 wandered, my lover?
Or here dost thou welter and bleed on the shore?
“What voice did I hear? ’twas my Henry that sighed!”
All mournful she hastened, nor wandered 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 streaming,
And pale was his visage, deep marked 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, “Heaven’s mercy relieving
Each anguishing wound, shall forbid me to mourn!”
“Ah, no! the last pang of 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 he sunk in her arms—the poor wounded Hussar!
LINES
INSCRIBED ON THE MONUMENT
LATELY FINISHED BY MR. CHANTREY, WHICH HAS BEEN ERECTED BY THE WIDOW OF
ADMIRAL SIR G. CAMPBELL K.C.B.,
TO THE MEMORY OF HER HUSBAND.
To him, whose loyal, brave, and gentle heart,
Fulfilled the hero’s and the patriot’s part,—
Whose charity, like that which Paul enjoined,
Was warm, beneficent, and unconfined,—
This stone is reared: to public duty true,
The seaman’s friend, the father of his crew—
Mild in reproof, sagacious in command,
He spread fraternal zeal throughout his band,
And led each arm to act, each heart to feel,
What British valour owes to Britain’s weal.
These were his public virtues:—but to trace
His private life’s fair purity and grace,
To paint the traits that drew affection strong
From friends, an ample and an ardent throng,
And, more, to speak his memory’s grateful claim
On her who mourns him most, and bears his name—
O’ercomes the trembling hand of widowed grief,
O’ercomes the heart, unconscious of relief
Save in religion’s high and holy trust,
Whilst placing their memorial o’er his dust.
THE BRAVE ROLAND.[73]
The brave Roland!—the brave Roland!—
False tidings reached the Rhenish strand
That he had fallen in fight;
And thy faithful, bosom swooned with pain,
O loveliest maiden of Allémayne!
For the loss of thine own true knight.
But why so rash has she ta’en the veil,
In yon Nonnenwerder’s cloisters pale?
For her vow had scarce been sworn,
And the fatal mantle o’er her flung,
When the Drachenfells to a trumpet rung—
’Twas her own dear warrior’s horn!
Woe! woe! each heart shall bleed—shall break!
She would have hung upon his neck,
Had he come but yester-even;
And he had clasped those peerless charms
That shall never, never fill his arms,
Or meet him but in heaven.
Yet Roland the brave—Roland the true—
He could not bid that spot adieu;
It was dear still ’midst his woes;
For he loved to breathe the neighbouring air,
And to think she blessed him in her prayer,
When the Halleluiah rose.
There’s yet one window of that pile,
Which he built above the Nun’s green isle;
Thence sad and oft looked he
(When the chant and organ sounded slow)
On the mansion of his love below,
For herself he might not see.
She died!—He sought the battle plain;
Her image filled his dying brain,
When he fell and wished to fall:
And her name was in his latest sigh,
When Roland, the flower of chivalry,
Expired at Roncevall.
[73] The tradition which forms the substance of these stanzas is still preserved in Germany. An ancient tower on a height, called the Rolandseck, a few miles above Bonn on the Rhine, is shown as the habitation which Roland built in sight of a nunnery, into which his mistress had retired, on having heard an unfounded account of his death. Whatever may be thought of the credibility of the legend, its scenery must be recollected with pleasure by every one who has visited the romantic landscape of the Drachenfells, the Rolandseck, and the beautiful adjacent islet of the Rhine, where a nunnery still stands.
THE SPECTRE BOAT.
A BALLAD.
Light rued false Ferdinand to leave a lovely maid forlorn,
Who broke her heart and died to hide her blushing cheek from scorn.
One night he dreamt he wooed her in their wonted bower of love,
Where the flowers sprang thick around them, and the birds sang sweet above.
But the scene was swiftly changed into a churchyard’s dismal view,
And her lips grew black beneath his kiss, from love’s delicious hue.
What more he dreamt, he told to none; but, shuddering, pale, and dumb,
Looked out upon the waves, like one that knew his hour was come.
’Twas now the dead watch of the night—the helm was lashed a-lee,
And the ship rode where Mount Ætna lights the deep Levantine sea;
When beneath its glare a boat came, rowed by a woman in her shroud,
Who, with eyes that made our blood run cold, stood up and spoke aloud:—
“Come, Traitor, down, for whom my ghost still wanders unforgiven!
Come down, false Ferdinand, for whom I broke my peace with heaven!”—
It was vain to hold the victim, for he plunged to meet her call,
Like the bird that shrieks and flutters in the gazing serpent’s thrall.
You may guess the boldest mariner shrunk daunted from the sight,
For the spectre and her winding-sheet shone blue with hideous light;
Like a fiery wheel the boat spun with the waving of her hand,
And round they went, and down they went, as the cock crew from the land.
THE LOVER TO HIS MISTRESS
ON HER BIRTH-DAY.
If any white-winged Power above
My joys and griefs survey,
The day when thou wert born, my love—
He surely blessed that day.
I laughed (till taught by thee) when told
Of Beauty’s magic powers,
That ripened life’s dull ore to gold,
And changed its weeds to flowers.
My mind had lovely shapes portrayed,
But thought I earth had one
Could make e’en Fancy’s visions fade
Like stars before the sun?
I gazed, and felt upon my lips
The unfinished accents hang:
One moment’s bliss, one burning kiss,
To rapture changed each pang.
And though as swift as lightning’s flash
Those trancèd moments flew,
Not all the waves of time shall wash
Their memory from my view.
But duly shall my raptured song,
And gladly shall my eyes
Still bless this day’s return, as long
As thou shalt see it rise.