Classic Poem

From a rived tree, that stands beside the grave
Of the self-slaughtered, to the misty moon
Calls the complaining owl in night's pale noon;
And from a hut, far on the hill, to rave
Is heard the ban-dog. With loud wave
The roused and turbid river surges down,
Swoll'n with the mountain-rains, and dimly shown
Appals the sense.—Yet see! from yonder cave,
Her shelter in the recent stormy showers,
With anxious brow, a fond-expecting maid
Steals towards the flood!—Alas!—for now appears
Her lover's vacant boat!—the broken oars
Roll down the tide!—What images invade!
Aghast she stands, the statue of her fears!