Classic Poem

Oh ! pale is that cheek,
Where the rose flourish'd brightly;
And cold is that heart
Which beat warmly and lightly;
And that lip I have clung to
The loathsome newt presses;
And the cold earth-worm strays
'Midst those dark-flowing tresses.

Yes, the earth-worm's the lover
That twines round thee now;
The rank grass waves over
That heav'n-beaming brow.
The night wind is sighing
Its dirge o'er thy head;
And the screech-owl replying
In shrieks for the dead.

Yet thy soft image never
My bosom forsakes;
For thee my heart ever
Shall beat till it breaks.
This wreath I am braiding
To deck thy grave-stone!
Oh! would it were shedding
Its leaves o'er my own!