Classic Poem

Stretch'd on a moulder'd Abbey's broadest wall,
Where ruining ivies propp'd the ruins steep--
Her folded arms wrapping her tatter'd pall,
Had Melancholy mus'd herself to sleep.
The fern was press'd beneath her hair,
The dark green Adder's Tongue was there;
And still as pass'd the flagging sea-gale weak,
The long lank leaf bow'd fluttering o'er her cheek.

That pallid cheek was flush'd: her eager look
Beam'd eloquent in slumber! Inly wrought,
Imperfect sounds her moving lips forsook,
And her bent forehead work'd with troubled thought.
Strange was the dream--