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Yes—something once had touched his brain—
With fire—but he would ne'er complain—
Had misery left him with the power
To tell the suffering of that hour:—
But—as it was, the fearful cause
Of all the scenes that madness draws—
That curse of Genius!—all that awes!—
That reft his heart—and bowed his pride,
To him was known—to none beside:
And all he knew, was but a dream
Of sleepless agony:—the beam,
That shone upon his maniac way,
Was but the melancholy ray,
That plays o'er churchyards, when the Night
Reveals her phantoms to the sight:
'Twas but the lurid, wandering beam:—
The troubled lightning of a stream;
Or stricken armour's hasty gleam;
'Twas but the light that meteors shed;
That faintly watches o'er the bed,
Where Desolation guards the dead:
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The splendours of the storm, that show
Temples and monuments laid low;
And altars shattered by that God
Whose thunders roll but once—whose nod
But once in wrath, is ever given—
When temples fall—and spires are strone;
And Empire totters from her throne;
And prostrate Idols bow to heaven!
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