Classic Poem

Sod that wraps my Henry's clay,
O lie lightly on his breast!
And ye winds that bring decay,
Spare the flowers with which 'tis drest.

So that, at the close of eve,
Fairy bands here oft may come,
Come, and their gay circles weave
Round my lover's grassy tomb.

Sportive elves! O here repair!
And I'll join your dance, and crave
Leave to bind your golden hair,
With the pride of Henry's grave.

Who could with my lover vye?
O his eye was brighter far,
Than the Morning's orient eye,
Than the Evening's leading star.

Form'd with manners mild to raise,
In the female breast love's smart,
Form'd to melt it too with ease,
Soon he won my virgin heart.

O! how happy have I been,
In the bosom of this grove,
By the pale moon's silver sheen,
Often wandering with my love!

Now, within the moon-light glade,
Now, even now, he should appear;
For he loves me still, tho' dead,
And when Anna calls will hear.

Wake, altho' thy sleep be sound,
And tho' pleasant be thy dreams,
Wake, and see how far around,
Cynthia's yellow radiance streams!

Wake, and hear the nightingale,
Her soft strains in sorrow steep,
Whilst, in pity to her tale,
Round her bower the night-winds weep.

Does my lover linger still?
Still, when round our walks so fair,
Seraphs smite their lyres, and fill
With soft melody the air;

And the zephyr steals the breath
Of the evening primrose flower,
That bestrews the lover's path,
That begems the lover's bower.

But if, pierc'd by Sorrow's dart,
Thou hast felt thy reason fly,
And in bitterness of heart,
Laid thee down, my love, to die;

Nor has death refus'd to steep,
In the balm of peace thy breast;
O! unbroken be thy sleep,
And soft be thy bed of rest!

Oh! how pleasing is repose
To the heart that ceaseless mourns!
Anna, too, her eyes will close,
For her brain, it burns—it burns!”

Sad she spoke, and sad she prest
His cold turf, by sorrow driven;
The chilling night-dews bath'd her breast,
And the mourner woke in Heaven.