A pitying tear bedew’d his cheek,—­
  From his lov’d child he flew;
O’erwhelm’d; the father could not speak,
  He could not say—­“adieu!”

Arm’d for the field, her lover
  He saw her pallid look,
And trembling seize her drooping frame,
  While fault’ring, thus he spoke: 

“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.

The foe, who aim’d the fatal dart,
  Now heard his dying sighs;
Compassion touch’d his yielding heart,
  To Albert’s aid he flies.

While round the chief his arms he cast,
  While oft he deeply sigh’d,
And seem’d, as if he mourn’d the past,
  Old Albert faintly cried;

“Tho’ nature heaves these parting groans,
  “Without complaint I die;
“Yet one dear care my heart still owns,
  “Still feels one tender tie,

“For York, a warriour known to fame,
  “Uplifts the hostile spear;
“Edwin the blooming hero’s name,
  “To Albert’s bosom dear.

“Oh, tell him my expiring sigh,
  “Say my last words implor’d
“To my despairing child to fly,
  “To her he once ador’d”—­

He spoke! but oh, what mournful strain,
  Whose force the soul can melt,
What moving numbers shall explain
  The pang that Edwin felt?

The pang that Edwin now reveal’d—­
  For he the warriour prest,
(Whom the dark shades of night conceal’d)
  Close to his throbbing breast.

“Fly, fly he cried, my touch profane—­
  “Oh, how the rest impart? 
“Rever’d old man!—­could Edwin stain
  “With Albert’s blood the dart!”