And ever drop the unavailing tear?

Must I no more that lovely face review,
Expressing each emotion of the mind?
No more repeat a sweetly sad adieu?
No more gay chaplets on his forehead bind?

His forehead, high and fair, with martial grace,
And bold, free curls of glossy chesnut crown'd;
The full, dark eye-brow which adorn'd his face,
O'erwhelming foes with terror as he frown'd.

His voice, though strong, harmoniously clear,
No more shall fill Albina with delight;
No more shall sooth her still-attentive ear,
And make her fancy every sorrow light.

Farewell to love, to happiness, and joy!
Yet will I cull the summer's choicest bloom;
Funereal chaplets shall my time employ,
And wither daily on my Arthur's tomb."

As thus she mourn'd, with bitterest woe opprest,
A ray of light illumin'd all the grove,
And a consoling voice the fair addrest,
In the soft accents of parental love.

Though still she clasp'd her hero's valued corse,
She slowly rais'd her languid, streaming eyes,
And own'd astonishment's resistless force,