"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!"
His languid eyes he meekly rais'd,
Which seem'd for ever clos'd;
On the pale youth with pity gaz'd,
And then in death repos'd.
"I'll go, the hapless Edwin said,
"And breathe a last adieu!
"And with the drops despair will shed,
"My mournful love bedew.
"I'll go to her for ever dear,
"To catch her melting sigh,
"To wipe from her pale cheek the tear,
"And at her feet to die."--
And as to her for ever dear
The frantic mourner flew,
To wipe from her pale cheek the tear,
And breathe a last adieu;
Appall'd his troubled fancy sees
Eltruda's anguish flow;
And hears in every passing breeze,
The plaintive sound of woe.
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