Oh! give me the horrors of night
By gloom and by silence array’d!
Let me walk where the soft rising wave
Has pictur’d the moon on its breast:
Let me walk where the new-cover’d grave
Allows the pale lover to rest!
When shall I in its peaceable womb
Be laid with my sorrows asleep?
Should Lavinia but chance on my tomb—
I could die if I thought she would weep.