Classic Poem

VII.

Out of her tent, as one afraid,
The moon along the purple field
Stole like an oriental maid,
Her beauty half concealed.

And, peering with her vestal torch
Between the vines at Sylvia's door,
She saw two shadows in the porch
Pass and repass the floor.

On the far hill the dreary hound
Saddened the evening with his howl;
In the near grove — a shuddering sound —
Echoed the ominous owl.

Three times, as at a robber band,
The guardian mastiff leaped his chain;
Three times the hand in Leon's hand
Grew chill and shook with pain.

And Sylvia said, " These, Leon, these
Are the dismal sounds which three nights past
Came herald to the mysteries
Of dreams too sad to last.