Classic Poem

'T IS midnight. On the globe dead slumber sits,
And all is silence—in the hour of sleep;
Save when the hollow gust, that swells by fits,
In the dark wood roars fearfully and deep
I wake alone to listen and to weep,
To watch, my taper, thy pale beacon burn;
And, as still Memory does her vigils keep,
To think of days that never can return.
By thy pale ray I raise my languid head,
My eye surveys the solitary gloom;
And the sad meaning tear, unmix'd with dread,
Tells thou dost light me to the silent tomb.
Like thee I wane;—like thine my life's last ray
Will fade in loneliness, unwept, away.