Classic Poem

TO THE O WL

Grave Bird, that shelter'd in thy lonely bower,
On some tall oak with ivy overspread,
Or in some silent barn's deserted shed,
Or mid the fragments of some ruin'd tower,
Still, as of old, at this sad solemn hour,
When now the toiling Sons of Care are fled,
And the freed Ghost slips from his wormy bed,
Complaineth loud of Man's ungentle power,
That drives thee from the cheerful face of day
To tell thy sorrows to the pale-eyed Night,
Like thee, escaping from the sunny ray,
I woo this gloom, to hide me from the sight
Of that fell Tribe whose persecuting sway
On Me and Thee alike is bent to light.