Classic Poem

Lovely was the night of May,
Clouds of silvery whiteness
O'er the blooming Spring away
Sailed in fleecy lightness.

Meadow, grove and mountain's brow
Silent rest were taking:
No one but the moonshine, now,
On the roads was waking.

Glare and din of day had fled—
Ceased each warbler's numbers—
Spring her fairy children led
Through the realm of slumbers.

Whispering breeze and brooklet crept
Slow with silent paces,
Fragrant dreams of flowers that slept
Filled the shadowy spaces.

But my rough Postillion, now,
Cracked his whip, and, flying,
Left the vale and mountain's brow
To his horn replying.

O'er the hill—across the plain—
Loud the hoofs resounded,
As, through all the bright domain,
On the good steeds bounded.

Wood and mead, as on we sped,
Flew with scarce a greeting;
Town and country by us fled,
Like a still dream fleeting.

In the lovely May-moon-light
Lay a church-yard nested,
And the traveller's roaming sight
Solemnly arrested.

On the mountain-side the wall
Seemed with age reclining,
And, above, a sad and tall
Crucifix was shining.

Driver, at a slower pace,
Up the road advances,
Stops, and toward the burial-place
Reverently glances:

‘Horse and wheel must tarry here—
Sir, 'tis not for danger—
But there lies one sleeping near,
Was to me no stranger!

‘'Twas a lad most rare and true—
Ah, the sorrow ponder!
None so clear the post-horn blew
As my comrade yonder!

‘Always must I linger here,
And, with mournful pleasure,
To the dead one's waiting ear
Blow his favorite measure!’

Toward the church-yard now he blew
Such entrancing numbers,
Well might pierce the dull ground through,
Stir the dead man's slumbers.

And a blast, upon the air,
From the heights came flying—
Was the dead Postillion there
To his songs replying?

On, again, and faster still,
On the good steeds bounded,—
Long that echo from the hill
In my ear resounded.