WHY frequent wanders in the dead of night,
The pensive Laura thro' the forest's gloom?
Why dares, regardless, the terrific sprite?
Why fearless paces by the dreary tomb?

Why, printless, does she leave her downy bed,
For strange enjoyment thus alone to stray?
Now on a dewy sod recline her head,
Now thoughtful gaze upon the moon's pale ray?

Where now has vanish'd the resistless smile?
Where flown the sprightly mirth which tun'd her tongue?
Why now no more can joy the hours beguile?
Why charms deep solitude a maid so young?

Say, is it melancholy sways thy mind?
Unconscious thou from whence proceeds thy smart;
But search thy bosom, and an arrow find,
For there the urchin, Love, has left his dart.