Classic Poem

While pensive I thought on my love,
The moon on the mountain was bright;
And Philomel down in the grove
Broke sweetly the silence of night.

Oh, I wished that the tear-drop would flow!
But I felt too much anguish to weep;
Till, worn with the weight of my woe,
I sunk on my pillow to sleep.

Methought that my love as I lay,
His ringlets all clotted with gore,
In the paleness of death seemed to say,
" Alas! we must never meet more!

" Yes, yes, my beloved! we must part;
The steel of my rival was true;
The assassin has struck on that heart
Which beats with such fervour for you. "