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Where heaps of mingled dead deformed the gi-ound, 

 Near to the fort the breathless Chief we found ; 

 Clay-cold and stiiF, the gory earth he prest, 

 A fatal ball had pierc'd his manly breast. 



Wretched Tegualda, who before her view'd 

 The pale disfigur'd form, in blood imbru'd, 

 Sprung forward, and with instantaneous force 

 Frantick she darted on the precious corse, 

 And press'd his lips, where livid death appears, 

 And bath'd his wounded bosom in her tears, 

 And kiss'd the wound, and the wild hope pursues 

 That her fond breath may yet new life infuse. 



Wretch that I am ! at length she madly cried, 

 Why does my soul these agonies abide ? 

 Why do I linger in this mortal strife. 

 Nor pay to Love his just demand, my life ? 

 Why, poor of spirit ! at a single blow 

 Do I not close this bitter scene of woe ? 

 Whence this delay ? will Heaven to me deny 

 The wretch's choice and privilege, to die ? 



While, bent on death, in this despair she gasp'd, 

 Her furious hands her snowy neck inclasp'd ; 

 Failing her frantick wish, they do not spare 

 Her mournful visage nor her flowing hair. 

 Much as I strove to stop her mad intent, 

 Her fatal purpose I could scarce prevent : 

 So loath'd she life, and with such fierce controul 

 The raging thirst of death inflam*d her soul. 



When by my prayers, and soft persuasion's balm. 

 Her pangs of sorrow grew a little calm, 

 And her mild speech confirm'd my hope, at last, 

 That her delirious agony was past. 

 My ready Indian train, with duteous haste, 

 On a firm bier the clay-cold body plac'd. 

 And bore the Warrior, in whose fate we griev'd, 

 To where her vassals the dear charge receivM. 

 But, lest from ruthless War's outrageous sway 

 The mourning Fair might suffer on her way, 

 O'er the near mountains, to a safer land, 

 I march'd to guard her with my warlike band ; 



Vol. il h 



