Classic Poem

The hours unbarr'd the gates of day above,
And Phaebus seem'd to rise in mournful mood;
Pale were his beams to gild the court of Jove,
His angry coursers loath'd their heav'nly food,
And wish'd to plunge again in ocean's flood:
Portentous clouds surcharg'd th' horizon o'er,
And their dark skirts distained were with blood;
The late green fields a sanguine aspect wore,
And from the trees distilled drops of crimson gore.