Classic Poem

'T WAS near the solemn silent mid-night hour,
(Much fam'd, tho' false, for Superstition's power)
A lad, who, loit'ring often by the way,
Had spent his time before in idly play,
A loss he now in vain was deeply mourning,
As from a country journey slow returning;
The sun descending, sober twilight grey
First strew'd with fancy'd thorns his weary way;
But when her mantle Night had closely drawn,
With fault'ring fearful steps he pac'd the lawn;
Now goblins, fairies, spectres still arose,
To fancy truly formidable foes;
For tales of such as these he oft had heard,
And to his mind they constantly appear'd;
Clouds dark and heavy veil'd the low'ring skies,
And the fierce tempest threaten'd to arise:
But sudden ev'ry dismal omen fails,
They fly, dispers'd abroad by fav'ring gales.
The silver moon then brightly breaking forth,
Cheer'd the glad bosom of the verdant earth,
While all around the yellow-tufted trees
Bow'd to the gently-whisp'ring western breeze.
But as he pass'd beneath their lengthen'd shade,
With fear the silly Boy the sight survey'd,
And fled from these; but vainly, for his own
Follow'd, and was to him as much unknown.
Now on he rushes, urg'd by groundless fear,
Impatient in his swift and mad career,
'Till in an unseen pit he sudden falls,
And long in vain for succour loudly calls;
Nor finds he help 'till the succeeding morn
Does with her radiance hills and woods adorn,
When from a woodman comes the wish'd relief,
And Idle quits the spot o'er whelm'd with shame and grief.