egious eagle[5] flew;
Our bosoms swell'd with more than mortal fire,
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,
And claim again his lov'd, his destin'd bride."

As thus the warrior's fainting spirits fled,
And parting life streamed forth at every vein,
His quivering lip, in whispers, softly said,
"Remember, Arthur dies to live again!"

"Oh stay, dear youth!" the hapless maiden cries,
My best-lov'd Arthur, but one moment stay!
And close not yet those all-enlivening eyes,
So lately lighted at the torch of day.

Ah! yet once more, that look of tender love,
Of fond regret, my Arthur, let me view!
Let one more effort thy affection, prove,
And bid me once, once more, a long adieu.

Now, ere the moon withdraws her feeble light,
Ope yet again on me thy fading eye!
He hears not! memory has ta'en her flight,
And vanish'd with that last convulsive sigh.

Why did I variegated wreaths prepare,
To pay the conqueror every honor due?
Or, why, with fillets, bind my flowing hair,
And tinge my arms of the bright azure hue?[7]

Oh! must this constant bosom beat no more?
This skilful hand no more direct the spear?
Must lost Albina still her fate deplore,
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