Why talks he to the idle air? 
  Why, listless, at his length reclin’d,
Heaves he the groan of deep despair,
  Responsive to the midnight wind?

Speak, gentle shepherd! tell me why? 
  —­Sir! he has lost his wife, they say—­
Of what disorder did she die? 
  —­Lord, sir! of none—­she ran away.

SONG

THE BLUE-EYED MAID.

Sweet are the hours when roseate spring
  With health and joy salutes the day,
When zephyr, borne on wanton wing,
  Soft wispering ’wakes the blushing May: 
Sweet are the hours, yet not so sweet
As when my blue-eyed maid I meet,
And hear her soul-entrancing tale,
Sequester’d in the shadowy vale. 
The mellow horn’s long-echoing notes
  Startle the morn commingling strong;
At eve, the harp’s wild music floats,
  And ravish’d silence drinks the song;
Yet sweeter is the song of love,
When Emma’s voice enchants the grove,
While listening sylphs repeat the tale,
Sequester’d in the silent vale.

BERTRAM AND ANNA.

Stranger! if thou e’er did’st love,
  If nature in thy bosom glows,
A Minstrel, rude, may haply move,
  Thine heart to sigh for Anna’s woes.

Lo! beneath the humble tomb,
  Obscure the luckless maiden sleeps;
Round it pity’s flowerets bloom,
  O’er it memory fondly weeps.

And ever be the tribute paid! 
  The warm heart’s sympathetic flow: 
Richer by far, ill-fated maid! 
  Than all the shadowy pomp of woe.

The shadowy pomp to thee denied. 
  While pity bade thy spirit rest: 
While superstition scowl’d beside,
  And vainly bade it not be blest.

Ah! could I with unerring truth,
  Inspir’d by memory’s magic power,
Pourtray thee, grac’d in ripening youth,
  With new enchantment, every hour;

When fortune smil’d, and hope was young,
  And hail’d thee like the bounteous May,
Renewing still thy steps among
  The faded flowers of yesterday.

All plaintive, then my lute should sound,
  While fancy sigh’d thy form to see;
The list’ning maids should weep around,
  And swains lament thy fate with me.

And, Stranger, thou who hear’st the tale,
  By soft infection taught to mourn,
Would’st wet with tears the primrose pale,
  That blooms beside her sylvan urn.

For she was fair as forms of love,
  Oft by the ’rapt enthusiast seen,
Who slumbers midst the myrtle grove,
  With spring’s unfolding blossoms green.

All eloquent, her eyes express’d
  Her heart to each fine feeling true: 
For in their orbs did pity rest,
  Suffusing soft their beamy blue.

And silence, pleas’d, his reign resign’d. 
  Whene’er he heard her vocal tongue;
And grief in slumbers sweet reclin’d,
  As on his ear its accents hung.