 | [Poems by Whittier in] A Study of Whittier's Apprenticeship as a Poet |  |
UPON THE INSANE HOSPITAL
(From Miss C. G. A's. Album)
Oh who that feel the arrow of despairRankling within the heart's blood-gushing core
Would not with rapture hail that soothing care
Which plucked the dart, and bid it pain no more.
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Which come in bitter wakings and in dreams,
Pouring their burning waters o'er the mind,
In scorching floods, like Etna's lava streams.
The tale is true—look at yon haggard thing,
Which starts in horror at the sea-bird's cry—
Who sees a demon in each flitting wing
Which thought may brush across his memory.
Alas “his wits are lost”—frail memory's glass,
With all his hopes and visionings are broken—
All of his bye-gone joys are but a mass
Of present ill—himself the living token.
Within thy walls, bright monument of good,
The scattered links of Reason oft are joined—
Then take this humble meed of gratitude
It comes from thy blessed votary, the mind.
Boston Statesman, May 10, 1827
| [Poems by Whittier in] A Study of Whittier's Apprenticeship as a Poet | |