Classic Poem

BY THE SAME .

Now Midnight o'er the earth her mantle throws,
The busy world is hush'd in soft repose.
Through parting trees the moon's pale lustre beams,
Or faintly glimmers o'er the crystal streams.
Beneath the poplar's shade, the nightingale
Tunes to the night her melancholy tale,
Till the shrill sky-lark, messenger of day,
Trills through the dusky clouds his matin lay.
'Neath, their thatch'd roofs the peaceful peasants rest,
No anxious care disturbs each guiltless breast.
In this still hour the wretch, o'erwhelm'd with woe,
From whose sad eyes unceasing torrents flow,
Pours his afflictions to the midnight gloom,
And weeps, and wishes for the silent tomb.