Puslapio vaizdai
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They that had fought so well
Came through the jaws of death
Back from the mouth of hell,
All that was left of them,
Left of six hundred.

When can their glory fade?
Oh, the wild charge they made!
All the world wondered.
Honour the charge they made,
Honour the Light Brigade,

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?.

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- '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,
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 thy wounded Hussar?

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"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,
Ye babes of my love, that await me afar".
His faltering tongue scarce could murmur adieu,

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,
The breeze threw back her hair;

Up to the fearful wheel she gazed

All that she loved was there.

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The night around was clear and cold,
The holy heaven above,

Its pale stars watching to behold

The night of earthly love.

"And bid me not depart," she cried,
"My Rudolph, say not so!

This is no time to quit thy side—
Peace! peace! I cannot go.

Hath the world aught for me to fear
When death is on thy brow?

The world! what means it? mine is here

I will not leave thee now.

"I have been with thee in thine hour

Of glory and of bliss:

Doubt not its memory's living power
To strengthen me through this!
And thou, mine honoured love and true,
Bear on, bear nobly on;

We have the blessed heaven in view,
Whose rest shall soon be won."

And were not these high words to flow
From woman's breaking heart?
Through all that night of bitterest woe
She bore her lofty part;

But oh! with such a glazing eye,

With such a curdling cheek Love! Love! of mortal agony

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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
Beside his tortured form,

And pouring her deep soul in prayer
Forth on the rushing storm.

She wiped the death-damps from his brow
With her pale hands so soft,

Whose touch upon the lute-chords low
Had stilled his heart so oft;

She spread her mantle o'er his breast,
She bathed his lips with dew,
And on his cheek such kisses pressed
As hope and joy ne'er knew.

Oh! lovely are ye, Love and Faith,
Enduring to the last!

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
Strength to forsake it not.

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,
And the clash of the tourney's lance.

The sounds of the sea and the sounds of the night,
And the hollow echoes of charge and flight,
Were around Clotilde, as she knelt to pray
In a chapel where the mighty lay,
On the old Provençal shore.

Many a Chatillon beneath,

Unstirred by the ringing trumpet's breath,
His shroud of armour wore;

And the glimpses of moonlight that went and came
Through the clouds, like bursts of a dying flame,
Gave quivering life to the slumber pale

Of stern forms couched in their marble mail,
At rest on the tombs of the knightly race,
The silent throngs of that burial place.

They were imaged there with helm and spear,
As leaders in many a bold career;

And haughty their stillness looked, and high,
Like a sleep whose dreams were of victory.
But meekly the voice of the lady rose
Through the trophies of their proud repose;

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