12
The morn is on the mountains spread,
The woodlark trills his liquid strain—
Can morn's sweet music rouse the dead?
Give the set eye its soul again?
A shepherd of that gentler mind
Which Nature not profusely yields,
Seeks in these lonely shades to find
Some wanderer from his little fields.
Aghast he stands—and simple fear
O'er all his play visage glides—
‘Ah me! what means this misery here?
What fate this lady fair betides?’
He bears her to his friendly home,
When life, he finds, has but retir'd;—
With haste he frames the lover's tomb,
For his is quite, is quite expir'd!
The woodlark trills his liquid strain—
Can morn's sweet music rouse the dead?
Give the set eye its soul again?
A shepherd of that gentler mind
Which Nature not profusely yields,
Seeks in these lonely shades to find
Some wanderer from his little fields.
Aghast he stands—and simple fear
O'er all his play visage glides—
‘Ah me! what means this misery here?
What fate this lady fair betides?’
He bears her to his friendly home,
When life, he finds, has but retir'd;—
With haste he frames the lover's tomb,
For his is quite, is quite expir'd!
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