Classic Poem

I.

O H ! nymph of pallid hue, and raven hair,
 That in sequester'd scenes art wont to rest,
 Deep-nurturing in thy sorrow-heaving breast
Some weight of grief, that none with thee may share;
Whose eye, whence tears have long forgot to flow,
 To Heaven directed looks, of earth afraid:
How sacred gleams that form of speechless woe!
 And sacred are thy haunts, thou solitary maid!

II.

Oft art thou seen beside the willowy stream;
 And, thouh no youthful smile adorn thy face,
 Though on thy cheek no roses we may trace,
In life's young spring a virgin dost thou seem.
Thy vesture careless hangs, as snowdrop white;
 Loose floating fall thy locks, unbound thy zone;
Thine eye now softly sad, now wildly bright,
 Bespeaks a lover dead, and thou canst love but one.

III.

Now art thou seen slow-lingering in the wood,
 Where pours the nightingale her liquid throat,
 And varies through the night her love-lorn note,
Robb'd of her faithful mate, and tender brood.—
To thee more pleasing than the vestment grey,
 Pale mourner! saddest of the widow train,
Doomed to lament, at thy dark close of day,
 Some aged Priam dead—some youthful Hector slain.

IV.

Thee Fancy sometimes hails the M USE of Woe ,
 Whom fabled wrongs could wake to real smart;
 O VID 's soft fictions melt thy yielding heart;
And suffering ghosts instruct the tear to flow.
Do tender sorrows P ITY s B ARD inspire?
 Thy lute responsive breathes the tragic moan:
But, does O RESTES curse the God of Fire?
 Quick dost thou leave thy lute, to listen to his groan.

V.

Say, can that pensive look thy mind reveal,
 While from thy lips the unfinished accents fall,
 As tho' the forward tongue would utter all,
Which yet thy secret bosom would conceal?
Witness to wrongs, no pity can relieve,
 To joys, which flatter, but must shortly flee;
E'en fancied Misery wakes the cause to grieve:
 Thou hast a sigh for all; none heaves a sigh for thee!

VI.

Then haste thee, Q UEEN of Woe , from mortal eye;
 Thy mansion fix within some lonely cell,
 Where pale ey'd S UPERSTITION loves to dwell,
Wearied of life, and lingers but to die:
As the sand streams to mark the fleeting hour;
 As the death's-head reminds thee of thy doom;
As the spade sinks thy future grave-bed lower,
 I, too, will learn to die, sad pilgrim at thy tomb!

VII.

Yet, oh! whatever form thou deign'st to wear,
 If yet soft M ERCY dwell within thy breast;
 Thyself so sad, yet anxious to make blest,
For others' woe if thou the sigh canst spare;
Tho' like the Sage that only liv'd to weep;
 Tho' all the load of human ills were thine,
For thee will I forego the balmy sleep,
 Or, wandering wild like thee, will make thy sorrows mine.