Classic Poem

Where, thro' the starry curtains of the night,
— Soft whisp'ring breezes wake the ruddy morn,
Whose sparkling eye darts forth returning light,
— Whose golden brows refulgent beams adorn:

Where gaudy blossoms o'er the tufted vale,
Fling their soft breathings on the spicy gale,
From the lorn Nightingale on yonder spray,
In melting murmurs steals the love-fraught lay;

Stranger to joy and hopeless of relief,
— At morn's proud glow — and twilight's pensive hour,
— Her widow'd breast its plaintive song shall pour,
In all the luxury of tender grief:
For ah! nor morn, nor fragrant gales can move
The faithful heart that mourns a truant Love.

Where, thro' the starry curtains of the night,
— Soft whisp'ring breezes wake the ruddy morn,
Whose sparkling eye darts forth returning light,
— Whose golden brows refulgent beams adorn:

Where gaudy blossoms o'er the tufted vale,
Fling their soft breathings on the spicy gale,
From the lorn Nightingale on yonder spray,
In melting murmurs steals the love-fraught lay;

Stranger to joy and hopeless of relief,
— At morn's proud glow — and twilight's pensive hour,
— Her widow'd breast its plaintive song shall pour,
In all the luxury of tender grief:
For ah! nor morn, nor fragrant gales can move
The faithful heart that mourns a truant Love.