Ah! yet once more, that look of tender love, Of fond regret, my Arthur, let me view! Let one more effort thy affection, prove, And bid me once, once more, a long adieu. Now, ere the moon withdraws her feeble light, Ope yet again on me thy fading eye! He hears not! memory has ta'en her flight, And vanish'd with that last convulsive sigh. Why did I variegated wreaths prepare, To pay the conqueror every honor due? Or, why, with fillets, bind my flowing hair, And tinge my arms of the bright azure hue?[7] Oh! must this constant bosom beat no more? This skilful hand no more direct the spear? Must lost Albina still her fate deplore, And ever drop the unavailing tear? Must I no more that lovely face review, Expressing each emotion of the mind? No more repeat a sweetly sad adieu? No more gay chaplets on his forehead bind? His forehead, high and fair, with martial grace, And bold, free curls of glossy chesnut crown'd; The full, dark eye-brow which adorn'd his face, O'erwhelming foes with terror as he frown'd. His voice, though strong, harmoniously clear, No more shall fill Albina with delight; No more shall sooth her still-attentive ear, And make her fancy every sorrow light. Farewell to love, to happiness, and joy! Yet will I cull the summer's choicest bloom; Funereal chaplets shall my time employ, And wither daily on my Arthur's tomb." As thus she mourn'd, with bitterest woe opprest, A ray of light illumin'd all the grove, And a consoling voice the fair addrest, In the soft accents of parental love. Though still she clasp'd her hero's valued corse, She slowly rais'd her languid, streaming eyes, And own'd astonishment's resistless force, Viewing the stranger with a wild surprize. The form was clad in robes of purest white, That swept with solemn dignity the ground; Contrasting with the blackest gloom of night, Which reign'd in awful majesty around. The silver beard did reverence demand,[8] And told her that a holy bard was there, Whose shrivell'd fingers grasp'd a flaming brand, Which threw a lustre on the waving hair. His eye possess'd the brilliant fire of youth, United with the wisdom of the sage; And speaking, with the simple voice of truth, He blended the solemnity of age. "Arise! thou loveliest of misfortune's train, And cease these weak, desponding tears to shed; The soft effusions of thy grief restrain, Which serve but to disturb the peaceful dead. The youth you mourn, far from these scenes of woe, To worlds of never-ending joy is flown; Where his blest bosom with delight shall glow, And his fair temples wear a princely crown. Ah then, presumptuous! question not the skies, Nor more with vain laments his loss deplore; Attend to this, and cease your fruitless sighs, You soon shall meet where you can part no more."[9]