Classic Poem

Her starry mantle night aloft displays,
And all heav'n's azure reddens with her rays;
Silence and quiet stillness reign around,
Save where lorn Maiden sends a sullen sound:
The weary swains in silent slumbers ly,
Mute is each tongue, and clos'd is ev'ry eye;
All nature sleeps!—but still this troubled breast
Broods o'er its sorrows, and denies me rest;
Awakes me nightly to lament my woe,
Where green reeds rustle as the breezes blow.
O, M IRA ! come, O, cruel! come and see
The many mis'ries I endure for thee;
For thee, extended on this turf I ly,
Weep this big tear, and heave this mournful sigh,
'Tis thy disdain, my unrelenting fair!
Thus blues my breast, and rends my hapless hair:
Your chilling scorn, O! must I ever prove?
You sure might pity whom you cannot love;
Might heave one sigh, when all my sighs you see,
“And give one tear of all I shed for thee.”

H OLD , hold, rash maid! my youth unripen'd spare,
Another frown will drive me to despair;
Will bring me immaturely to the grave,
And hurl me headlong in the rolling wave.