They that had fought so well When can their glory fade? Noble six hundred ! TENNYSON. XXII THE WOUNDED HUSSAR. Alone, to the banks of the dark rolling Danube Fair Adelaide hied when the battle was o'er;— "Oh whither," she cried, "hast thou wandered, my lover? "Or here dost thou welter and bleed on the shore? "What voice did I hear? - 'twas my Henry that sighed;" All mournful she hastened, nor wandered she far, When, bleeding and low, on the heath she descried, By the light of the moon, her poor wounded Hussar. From his bosom that heaved, the last torrent was streaming, How smit was poor Adelaide's heart at the sight! "Hast thou come, my fond love, this last sorrowful night To cheer the lone heart of thy wounded Hussar?" "Thou shalt live," she replied, "Heaven's mercy relieving Each anguishing wound, shall forbid me to mourn! "Ah no, the last pang in my bosom is heaving; No light of the morn shall to Henry return! "Thou charmer of life, ever tender and true, When he sank in her arms- - the poor wounded Hussar ! CAMPBELL. XXIII GERTRUDE VON DER WART; OR, FIDELITY TILL DEATH. Her hands were clasped, her dark eyes raised, Up to the fearful wheel she gazed All that she loved was there. The night around was clear and cold, Its pale stars watching to behold The night of earthly love. "And bid me not depart," she cried, Hath the world aught for me to fear The world! what means it? mine is here I will not leave thee now. "I have been with thee in thine hour Doubt not its memory's living power We have the blessed heaven in view, And were not these high words to flow But oh! with such a glazing eye, Love! Love! of mortal agony Thou, only thou shouldst speak! The wind rose high - but with it rose Her voice, that he might hear; Perchance that dark hour brought repose To happy bosoms near; While she sat striving with despair And pouring her deep soul in prayer She wiped the death-damps from his brow She spread her mantle o'er his breast, Oh! lovely are ye, Love and Faith, She had her meed-one smile in death, And his worn spirit passed! While even as o'er a martyr's grave She knelt on that sad spot, And, weeping, blessed the God who gave F. HEMANS. XXIV THE LADY OF PROVENCE. The war-note of the Saracen Was on the winds of France; It had stilled the harp of the troubadour, The sounds of the sea and the sounds of the night, Many a Chatillon beneath, Unstirred by the ringing trumpet's breath, And the glimpses of moonlight that went and came Of stern forms couched in their marble mail, They were imaged there with helm and spear, And haughty their stillness looked, and high, |