I think, Sir Thomas, you might call.
That poor young man!—I'm sure and certain
Despair is making up his shroud:
He walks all night beneath the curtain
Of the dim sky and murky cloud—
Draws landscapes,—throws such mournful glances!—
Writes verses,—has such splendid eyes—
An ugly name,—but Laura fancies
He's some great person in disguise!
And since his dress is all the fashion,