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.