THE MANIAC.
They say that the light of her eyes is gone,
That her voice is low, and her cheek is wan;
That her looks are sad, and strange, and wild,
Yet meek as the looks of a sinless child.
For the melting glance of her soft blue eye
Is chill'd by cold insanity;
And the beauty that her bright form wore,
Is the shrine of a living soul no more.
And her words discourse not music sent
From reason's govern'd instrument;
But, borne by her troubled fancies, stray,
Like notes of the harp which the wild winds play.
I would not look on her alter'd brow
Nor her eye, so dim and soulless now;
I would not view her pale, pale cheek,
Nor hear her, in her madness, speak;
Nor see her smile, she knows not why,
While her tears flow down unmeaningly;
Nor her vacant gaze, the piteous token
Of a brain o'er-wrought, and a young heart broken;
No—on these things I would not look
For the brightest gift in Fortune's book;
For she was join'd with the fairest things
That rose in my youth's imaginings.
And oh! how oft have I turn'd away
From a brighter eye and a cheek more gay,
That my soul might drink, to sweet excess,
The light of her pensive loveliness.
But her languid eye shall charm no more,—
Her smiles and her tears—they are nearly o'er;
For found hopes lost, and a heart o'er-laden,
Have crush'd, in her bloom, the guiltless maiden.
