When from the field indignant they withdrew.

But ill bespeaks my faint and languid tongue,
The glowing beauties of that joyful sight;
Ill can my breast, with keenest torture wrung,
Dwell on the charming terrors of the fight.

To others then I leave the envied strain,
Which shall for ages rend the British air;
Nor will thy partial ear expect, in vain,
To find the humble name of Arthur there.

I go, while now the victory is warm,
The just reward of valour to obtain;
Soon I return, clad in a nobler form,[6]
Again to triumph, and again be slain.

Ah! then, my dear Albina, cease to grieve,
Nor at thy lover's glorious fate repine;
For, though my present favour'd form I leave,
This constant heart shall still be only thine.

Alas! e'en now I feel the icy hand
Of hasty death, press down my swelling heart;
E'en now I hear a sweet aerial band,
Summon thy faithful Arthur to depart.

Let not thy tears an absent lover mourn,
Remember that he bravely, nobly died;
Remember that he quickly will return,