Ah! who could deem that foot of Indian crew

Was near?-yet there, with lust of murd'rous deeds,

Gleam'd like a basilisk, from woods in view,

The ambush'd foeman's eye-his volley speeds,

And Albert-Albert-falls! the dear old father bleeds!

XXVIII.

And tranc'd in giddy horror Gertrude swoon'd;

Yet, while she clasps him lifeless to her zone,
Say, burst they, borrow'd from her father's wound,
These drops?—Oh God! the life-blood is her own;
And falt'ring, on her Waldegrave's bosom thrown—
'Weep not, O Love!'-she cries, to see me bleed-

Thee, Gertrude's sad survivor, thee alone

'Heaven's peace commiserate; for scarce I heed

'These wounds;—yet thee to leave is death, is death indeed.

K

· Of fate! while I can feel thy drear caress;

And, when this heart hath ceas'd to beat-oh! think,

And by the hopes of an immortal trust,

'God shall assuage thy pangs-when I am laid in dust!

XXX.

Go, Henry, go not back, when I depart,

The scene thy bursting tears too deep will move,

Where my dear father took thee to his heart,

And Gertrude thought it ecstasy to rove

With thee, as with an angel, through the grove

Of peace,-imagining her lot was cast

In heav'n; for ours was not like earthly love.

"No! I shall love thee still, when death itself is past.

XXXI.

C

· Half could I bear, methinks, to leave this earth,—

And thee, more lov'd, than aught beneath the sun,

• If I had liv'd to smile but on the birth

'Of one dear pledge;—but shall there then be none,

'In future times—no gentle little one,

To clasp thy neck, and look, resembling me!

'Yet seems it, ev'n while life's last pulses run,

A sweetness in the cup of death to be,

'Lord of my bosom's love! to die beholding thee!'

XXXII.

Hush'd were his Gertrude's lips! but still their bland

And beautiful expression seem'd to melt

With love that could not die! and still his hand

She presses to the heart no more that felt.

Ah heart! where once each fond affection dwelt,

And features yet that spoke a soul more fair.

Mute, gazing, agonizing as he knelt,—

Of them that stood encircling his despair,

He heard some friendly words;-but knew not what they were.

XXXIII.

For now, to mourn their judge and child, arrives

A faithful band. With solemn rites between,

'Twas sung, how they were lovely in their lives,

And in their deaths had not divided been.

Touch'd by the music, and the melting scene,

Was scarce one tearless eye amidst the crowd:

Stern warriors, resting on their swords, were seen

To veil their eyes, as pass'd each much-lov'd shroud—

While woman's softer soul in woe dissolv'd aloud.

XXXIV.

Then mournfully the parting bugle bid

Its farewell o'er the grave of worth and truth;
Prone to the dust, afflicted Waldegrave hid

His face on earth;-him watch'd in gloomy ruth,
His woodland guide; but words had none to sooth
The grief that knew not consolation's name:
Casting his Indian mantle o'er the youth,

He watch'd, beneath its folds, each burst that came
Convulsive, ague-like, across his shuddering frame!