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 What voice have I heard? ’twas my Henry that sigh’d:

All mournful she hasten’d, nor wander’d she far,

When bleeding and low, on the heath, she descry’d,

By the light of the moon, her poor wounded Hussar.

From his bosom that heav’d the last torrent was streaming,

And pale was bis visage, deep mark’d 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?

Thou shall 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 fault’ring tongue scarcely could murmur, adieu

When he sunk in her arms, the poor wounded Hussar.

