FAIR Adaline sigh'd on her brave warrior's breast,
When contest's loud din to the field call'd away.
With passions, contending, her bosom was prest,
While her fast flowing tears gently bade him to stay.

But war o'er her country its terrors had spread,
And her cities were pale with invasion's alarms;
"Go, ALWYN, repel the invaders," she said,
And the laurel of victory bring to my arms."

The cannon loud thunder'd; the drum's troubled sound,
Re-echo'd the vales and the woodland's among,
The high mettled courser paw'd fiercely the ground,
While the fault'ring adieu died on Adaline's tongue.

To the grim scenes of battle the hero quick sped,
And rush'd thro' the storm like the thunder's dread gleam.
The foe, overthrown, were slain, captur'd or fled,
And Peace, led by Victory, wept o'er the scene.

But a ball that whiz'd horrent along the dark air,
Just when was decided the fate of the plain,
Pierc'd our brave soldier's bosom with honor's deep scar,
And he sunk in his blood mid the piles of the slain.

To Adaline's ear the sad news was convey'd,
A sigh rose convulsive; her pulse ceas'd to play;
"I'll fly to thy bosom, my hero," she said,
And her soul thro' the regions of light soar'd away.

But Alwyn was fated his Fair to survive,
Though long time he languish'd in torturing pain;
From the heaps of the slain he was taken alive,
And health and firm soundness restor'd him again.

To Adaline's mansion he hastily press'd,
His heart beat in raptures while swell'd with her charms:--
"A tear will she yield to the fear on my breast,
As the laurel of victory graces her arms".

But in vain for his fair one he anxiously calls,
In vain thro' each aisle and apartment he roams,
His voice trembles lonely along the far walls,
And the echoes lament her in deep sounding groans.

Now in a drear cave, unfrequented by light,
At the foot of yon mountain, all shrouded in gloom,
See Alwyn conversing with spectres of night,
While he points to the willow that weeps o'er her tomb.