Classic Poem

The wakeful clock has told the midnight hour,
The list'ning ghosts obey the solemn sound;
Now flocking forth from restless graves they pour,
And now they range their melancholy round.

Where'er the lonely wood-encircled dome
Uprears its mould'ring moss-grown roof on high,
With footstep drear they sweep the silent gloom,
And wake pale horrors on the sleepless eye.

Perhaps the spot where first they drew their breath,
That saw them taste the sweets of cheerful day;
The spot where some fell russian gave them death,
And tore them from their blooming hopes away.

Fast by the stream whose drowsy waters flow
Darksome and dreary thro' the mirky vale,
Pensive they stalk, and murmur as they go
Unwearied wailings to the echoing gale.

Perhaps, when summer led the lengthen'd day,
And shed resistless round the sultry beam;
Languid they left th' insufferable ray,
To plunge and wanton in the cooling stream.

Fearless of fate, with far unequal arm,
Perhaps they prideful sought the further shore;
In vain they sought, in vain the loud alarm!
The wave was ruthless, and they rose no more.

With sullen step, and terror-darting mien,
What crowds from ocean's oozy depths repair!
How many earth's unhallow'd fields resign,
To howl unnoted to the desert air.

Slow, from the church-yard's consecrated gloom,
Where grass-green graves in decent-order heave,
The numerous victims of a milder doom
Their narrow cells with peasive pleasure leave!

Perhaps they hie them to their native grove,
Some fav'rite walk, or long-frequented scene;
Perhaps along the silent street they rove,
Or lightly trip it o'er the vacant green.

Perhaps (since memory of an earthly fire
Yet warms the bosom of the sep'rate mind)
They hover o'er some hoary-headed sire,
Or heart-dividing friend they left behind:

Or, as the rolling hours return the night,
Viewless as air, and unconfin'd, they rove
Round some lorn maid, with fondly ling'ring flight,
Who mourns with many a sigh their ravish'd love.

No closing walls restrain the airy form,
No rising hills nor rolling waves divide;
No dread have they of danger or of scorn,
Unfelt the frown of unrelenting pride.

Delightful task!—by me envy'd in vain!
Far, far remov'd I plan the plaintive lay,
Where rising mountains rear their brows between,
And rolling waters mark the distant way.

And harder still! a fire, with scornful eye
Regards the swain, the youth of low degree,
And deaf to love, and nature's forceful cry,
Exiles unhonour'd poverty and me.

Hence C LARA wastes away her virgin bloom;
Hence fools gay-glitt'ring croud her pensive bow'r;
Hence, all forlorn! I watch the midnight gloom,
And hence these solitary accents pour.