Classic Poem

COLLECTED BY THE AUTHOR FROM SEVERAL CHARACTERS, SEEN IN
DIFFERENT MADHOUSES .

Yes — yes — 'tis he — I see the lightning flash
Dart from his frantic eye, which now is fix'd
With wistful gaze on heav'n, and now on earth.
Lank falls his dark brown hair; for on his head
Knows not to play its tricks the wanton curl.
Silence droops on his brow, — like student pale,
By watching wearied, couching his faint eye
In stealthy slumbers. — Upward now he starts —
Swift, swift he flies with wild irregular pace,
As driven by F URY : soon, as thunder-smitten,
Or as outstript by some thin-mantled ghost,
Violent he stops, till with pale shrivell'd hand
He strikes his forehead, like one labouring deep
With vast concerns: " Ah! wretched, poor forlorn,
" Where art thou hurried? What thy great resolve? "

To such mine askings answer none he gives,
While a weak female backward turns his steps,
As the light helm the vessel tempest-tost.

But soon unask'd he vaunts in royal strains
Of kingdoms, empires, his dread navies ride
On seas unknown, and known; huge continents
Bow to his armies; and his stern decrees
Balance and settle the tumultuous world.
Diadems, and crowns, mere party-colour'd wreaths,
These are his playthings, and he throws them down,
Or gives away as baubles: Now he laughs
At Superstition with her triple crown;
Proclaims her hag, and strumpet with lawn-sleeves:
And ever and anon with screaming voice
He calls the Fiend of W AR , and C ARNAGE dire;
While R EVOLUTION stalks, and mows down worlds:
Then will he stately rise upon his seat,
Call it his throne, his high imperial throne,
And with his straw-made sceptre point around;
" Why sleep my nobles? " Like a gathering cloud
Then scowls his face; till kicking down his stool,
Thus, thus, he cries, I crowns and sceptres crush,
P ARAMOUNT L ORD of a base vassal world.
Nor does he finish here: I hear him curse
Some great majestic B EING , who gave him life,
Wretched existence! him with perilous arm,
And red-hot thunderbolt he dares, resolv'd,
As B RIAREUS of old the mighty Jove,
Soon to dethrone the tyranny of heaven.
Oh! then he stops, and howls so hideous-wild,
As some damn'd fiend had fast engrasp'd him round.

Thou miserable man! If e'er the milk
Of sympathy stream'd soft within this breast,
While nature sigh'd for utterance, flows it now
With female softness: Oh! had I but a harp
Of varied melodies, strive I would to touch
Some magic chord to calm thy troublous spirit:
Yes! I would hold thy soul, as by a spell,
Enchain'd with sound, till thou should'st bless that harp!
But no — that may not be, thou wretched man;
What sounds can charm a soul so lost as thine?

Anon, as though his eye had ne'er till now
Perceiv'd me, loud he screams, " And art thou there,
" Thou fiend of hell? How didst thou dare to curse
" These burning eyes? Heav'n's curses crowd on thee! —
" Torrents of vengeance! — — Hence, thou fire-ey'd devil,
" Or I will burn — — "
— — — — Oh! how my head turns round,
When I thy form behold, thou wretched man!
How language wanders, and how thought runs wild!
Poor creature, hope-bereav'd — oh! I must leave thee!