Classic Poem

Again, by the moon's pallid light,
To heart-rending sorrow a prey!
I, weeping, unravel by night,
The wearisome task of the day.

O'er Ithaca widow'd I reign;
The rage of proud monarchs I dread;
Their combats ensanguine the plain;
And peace from my kingdom is fled.

For the son of Laertes I sigh;
His rivals I hear with disdain, —
Indignant their suit I deny, —
Ah! why will they add to my pain!

Their rude hands would tear from my heart
The image of him I adore; —
O! force them, ye gods, to depart,
And my long-lost Ulysses restore.