The Harp of Erin Containing the Poetical Works of the Late Thomas Dermody. In Two Volumes |
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THE MANIAC.
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 | The Harp of Erin |  |
THE MANIAC.
A FRAGMENT.
“The frozen north is killing
cold,
But warm to fortune's frown compared;
For love himself is won by gold,
Nay life by precious gold ensnared:
Then blow, blow, blow, thou felon blast,
Till Nature's clay-built mansions are o'ercast,
Her babies drown'd!
While the grim sisters whirl the wheel so fast,
Round, and round, and round,
That the threads of mertality snap in the middle,
And being's sad riddle,
By sages confounded,
With time is expounded,
Then left for pastime to his offspring death!
They tell us being is but breath;
Then thus I puff my soul away;—
Lo! there!
Or, I can chain it in a cobweb wreath,
And bid the fickle captive stay.
Forbear!
Alas! it will not stop, it flies so fast,
'Tis at Heav'n's gaol, ere half a thought is past.”
But warm to fortune's frown compared;
For love himself is won by gold,
Nay life by precious gold ensnared:
Then blow, blow, blow, thou felon blast,
Till Nature's clay-built mansions are o'ercast,
Her babies drown'd!
While the grim sisters whirl the wheel so fast,
Round, and round, and round,
That the threads of mertality snap in the middle,
And being's sad riddle,
By sages confounded,
With time is expounded,
74
They tell us being is but breath;
Then thus I puff my soul away;—
Lo! there!
Or, I can chain it in a cobweb wreath,
And bid the fickle captive stay.
Forbear!
Alas! it will not stop, it flies so fast,
'Tis at Heav'n's gaol, ere half a thought is past.”
As close by the grated window's twilight pane
Darkling I past, with melancholy gaze,
Frantic by fits, the maniac reason'd thus,
And ever, as he eyed his moving shade,
He sigh'd, he started—“Aye, this is my friend,
My mild, my melting, false, perfidious friend;
See, how he flies me in my evil hour,
But courts the sunshine.”—Still he followed close
The visionary man, which shifting still,
His parley baffled, till at length enraged,
With blood-shot eyes, grim smiles, and quiv'ring lip,
A rusted key he seized, then smote the wall;
“'Tis done,” (he cry'd) and wildly laughed aloud;
“And now for justice to my injured self,”
He said; and brandishing the massy weight,
Deep in his forehead plunged—
Darkling I past, with melancholy gaze,
Frantic by fits, the maniac reason'd thus,
And ever, as he eyed his moving shade,
He sigh'd, he started—“Aye, this is my friend,
My mild, my melting, false, perfidious friend;
See, how he flies me in my evil hour,
But courts the sunshine.”—Still he followed close
The visionary man, which shifting still,
His parley baffled, till at length enraged,
With blood-shot eyes, grim smiles, and quiv'ring lip,
A rusted key he seized, then smote the wall;
“'Tis done,” (he cry'd) and wildly laughed aloud;
“And now for justice to my injured self,”
He said; and brandishing the massy weight,
Deep in his forehead plunged—
| The Harp of Erin | |