Classic Poem

Night, raven-wing'd, usurps her peaceful reigs
Sleep's lenient balsam stills the voice of woe;
A keener breeze breathes o'er the lowly plain,
And pebbly rills in deeper murmurs flow.

The paly moon thro' yonder dreary grove,
The screech-owl's haunt, emits a feeble ray;
The plumy warblers quit the song of love,
And dangle, slumb'ring, on the dewy spray.

The mastiff, conscious of the lover's tread,
With wakeful yell the list'ning maid alarms,
Who, loosely rob'd, sorsakes the downy bed,
And springs reserveless to his longing arms.

O, happy he! who, with the maid he loves,
Thus toys, endearing on the twilight green,
While all is rapture; Cupid's self approves,
And Jove consenting veils the tender scene.

O, happy he! by gracious fate allow'd,
At dusky eve, to clasp the slender waist,
Press the soft lip, dissolve the silky shroud,
And feel the heavings of a love-sick breast.

Once mine the bliss:—But now with plaintive care
I, lonely wand'ring, tune the voice of woe;
And, patient, brave the chilly midnight air,
Where wild woods thicken, and where waters flow.