Fierce roars the midnight storm
O’er the wild mountain,
Dark clouds the night deform,
Swift rolls the fountain—
 
See! o’er yon rocky height,
Dim mists are flying—
See by the moon’s pale light,
Poor Laura’s dying!
 
Shame and remorse shall howl,
By her false pillow—
Fiercer than storms that roll,
O’er the white billow;
 
No hand her eyes to close,
When life is flying,
But she will find repose,
For Laura’s dying!
 
Then will I seek my love,
Then will I cheer her,
Then my esteem will prove,
When no friend is near her.
 
On her grave I will lie,
When life is parted,
On her grave I will die,
For the false hearted.
 
DECEMBER, 1809.

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