Classic Poem

Poor Cleariste loosed her virgin zone
Not for her wedding, but for Acheron;
'Twas but last eve the merry pipes were swelling,
And dancing footsteps thrill'd the, festive dwelling;
Morn changed those notes for wailings loud and long,
And dirges drown'd the hymeneal song;
Alas! the very torches meant to wave
Around her bridal couch now light her to the grave!