Returning from the cruel fight
  How pale and faint appears my knight!
  He sees me anxious at his side;
  "Why seek, my love, your wounds to hide?
  Or deem your English girl afraid
  To emulate the Indian maid?"

  Be mine my husband's grief to cheer
  In peril to be ever near;
  Whate'er of ill or woe betide,
  To bear it clinging at his side;
  The poisoned stroke of fate to ward,
  His bosom with my own to guard:
  Ah! could it spare a pang to his,
  It could not know a purer bliss!
  'Twould gladden as it felt the smart,
  And thank the hand that flung the dart!