 | Rhapsodies |  |
117
CRAZY TOM, THE BEDLAMITE.
I rage! I burn! my soul expires;
My heart is scorch'd with ardent fires;
Oh! give me Alpine snow.
Ah! now I tremble—now I feel
The icy fangs of winter steal,
And freeze my blood's hot flow.
I've twin'd a garland for my love;
Her face was passing rare;
But flint her heart, for nought could move
The fairest of the fair.
My heart is scorch'd with ardent fires;
Oh! give me Alpine snow.
Ah! now I tremble—now I feel
The icy fangs of winter steal,
And freeze my blood's hot flow.
I've twin'd a garland for my love;
Her face was passing rare;
But flint her heart, for nought could move
The fairest of the fair.
Ah! now I'll soar to heaven on high,
And snatch a handful of the sky,
Or steal yon twinkling star;
No, no; I'll climb the craggy steep,
Then headlong plunge into the deep,
Or sail in cockle car.
I see her now; her eye-balls glare,
And demons hideous roar:
Mark where they hurl their brands in air;
And will she come no more?
And snatch a handful of the sky,
Or steal yon twinkling star;
No, no; I'll climb the craggy steep,
Then headlong plunge into the deep,
Or sail in cockle car.
I see her now; her eye-balls glare,
And demons hideous roar:
Mark where they hurl their brands in air;
And will she come no more?
118
Sing, pretty warblers of the grove!
Chaunt strains melodious, strains of love;
Poor Tom grows sick at heart:
Shrill scream thy song, fell bird of night!
The bat and raven's my delight;
I've snapp'd the rankling dart.
Who's now so free, so gay as I?
Who tastes such heavenly joys?
Tush, tush! poor love-sick Tom will die,
And leave the Bedlam boys.
Chaunt strains melodious, strains of love;
Poor Tom grows sick at heart:
Shrill scream thy song, fell bird of night!
The bat and raven's my delight;
I've snapp'd the rankling dart.
Who's now so free, so gay as I?
Who tastes such heavenly joys?
Tush, tush! poor love-sick Tom will die,
And leave the Bedlam boys.
There sits enthron'd the dimpled god;
He beckons now, with graceful nod:
Hush, hush! I'll grind my chain;
I'm monarch now—obey my law—
Split world—rain fire—lull care in straw—
A bolt has sing'd my brain.
And now poor Tom will merry be,
And laugh to kill old care;
Ice, fire, friends, love, are still with me;
She's fairest of the fair.
He beckons now, with graceful nod:
Hush, hush! I'll grind my chain;
I'm monarch now—obey my law—
Split world—rain fire—lull care in straw—
A bolt has sing'd my brain.
And now poor Tom will merry be,
And laugh to kill old care;
Ice, fire, friends, love, are still with me;
She's fairest of the fair.
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