Classic Poem

The Stage-coach, through the forest,
Rolls by at dead of night:
The passengers are sleeping,
But the Postillion's bright.

Before the forester's cottage
What means the Postillion's blast?
The passengers are startled,
They think it's the station at last.

Such lovely airs his bugle
Sends up through the window clear,
It wakes the woodland echoes,
And the moon comes out to hear.

Shine in, fair moon, at the window,
And let my darling see
Glide through her dreams, the moon sprites,
To the post-horn's melody.