Classic Poem

'Tis dead of night; storms rend the troubled air:
Fell Murder takes his solitary round,
Yet shrinks affrighted from the meteor's glare,
And starts while falling trees and rocks resound.
From Alpine woods, his hunger to allay,
Rushes the wolf, and tears the new-made grave;
Yet, though half-famished, quits his bloody prey,
And slinks reluctant back to his lone cave.
But who is she, who 'mid the dreadful scene,
Fearlessly treads the cliff's extremest verge,
Surveying all around with looks serene,
The prostrate towers, rent rocks, and foaming surge?
'Tis Virtue—conscious she of blameless life,
Nor shuns nor fears the elemental strife.