Classic Poem

Yes, gentle ghost! I hear the solemn found,
That nightly rouses to the scene of woe;
I see the shade that beckons to thy wound,
While o'er thy grave the teary torrents flow.

Tho' screechs the howlet from the dreary glade,
And croaks the raven from her bough-built nest;
I'll bow me lowly o'er thy clay-cold bed,
And bid the turf lie lightly on thy breast.

Here ly'st thou hapless! (let me wipe this tear),
Where slowly creeping steals the silent wave;
No pious parent deck'd thy early bier,
No maiden willows wither'd on thy grave.

In drear procession went no friendly train,
Solemnly sad, or bade thy spirit rest;
But, hurrying on, a noisy crew profane
The coarse green turf threw careless on thy breast.

Ghastly magnificent, no sculptur'd tomb,
In busto'd grandeur, courts the distant sky;
No veiny marble emulates thy bloom,
No mournful lay bedews the passing eye.

But lowly, Laura ! lies thy lovely frame;
The dust enclasps thee in a cold embrace;
Breeze-chaff'd beside thee mourns a falling stream,
And o'er thee lonesome waves the dark-green grass.
Why bare thy bosom, ting'd with vital gore?
Point to they wound?—I hasten, gentle shade—
Despair invites—I learn her fatal lore—
With desp'rate hand thus urge the gleamy blade.

Some woodland bard shall mourn our early doom,
Soft o'er our grave awake the plaintive strain;
Shall flit the meteor round our fumble tomb,
And screaming goblins haunt the bloody plain.

Shall tell the shepherds, on this verdant swathe,
A dismal story of luckless pair;
Whom, brought untimely to a violent death,
A mistress buried, and a sire severe.