"This cruel tenderness but wounds
"The heart it means to bless;
"Those falling tears, those mournful sounds
"Increase the vain distress."—
"If fate, she answer'd, has decreed
"That on the hostile plain,
"My Edwin's faithful heart must bleed,
"And swell the heap of slain;
"Trust me, my love, I'll not complain,
"I'll shed no fruitless tear;
"Not one weak drop my cheek shall stain,
"Or tell what passes here!
"Oh, let thy fate of others claim
"A tear, a mournful sigh;
"I'll only murmur thy dear name—
Call on my love—and die!"
But ah! how vain for words to tell
The pang their bosoms prov'd;
They only will conceive it well,
They only, who have lov'd.
The timid muse forbears to say
What laurels Edwin gain'd;
How Albert long renown'd, that day
His ancient fame maintain'd.
The bard, who feels congenial fire,
May sing of martial strife;
And with heroic sounds, inspire
The gen'rous scorn of life;
But ill the theme would suit her reed,
Who, wand'ring thro' the grove,
Forgets the conq'ring hero's meed,
And gives a tear to love.
Tho' long the closing day was fled,
The fight they still maintain;
While night a deeper horror shed
Along the darken'd plain.
To Albert's breast an arrow flew,
He felt a mortal wound;
The drops that warm'd his heart, bedew
The cold, and flinty ground.