Poor Matthew! I have ne'er forgot
When first with maddened will,
Yourself you maimed, your father fought,
And mother strove to kill;
And terror spread, and neighbours ran,
Your dang'rous strength to bind;
And soon a howling crazy man,
Your limbs were fast confined.
How then you writhed and shrieked aloud,
Your bones and sinnews bared;
And fiendish on the gaping crowd,
With burning eye-balls glared.
And begged, and swore, and wept, and prayed,
With maniac laughter joined---
How fearful are the signs displayed,
By pangs that kill the mind!
And when at length, tho' drear and long,
Time soothed your fiercer woes---
How plaintively your mournful song,
Upon the still night rose.
I've heard it oft, as if I dreamed,
Far-distant, sweet, and lone;
The funeral dirge it ever seemed
Of reason dead and gone.
To drink it's strains, I've stole away,
All silently and still,
Ere yet the rising god of day
Had streaked the Eastern hill.
Air held his breath; the trees all still
Seemed sorr'wing angels round.
Their swelling tears in dew-drops fell
Upon the list'ning ground.
But this is past, and nought remains
That raised you o'er the brute.
Your mad'ning shrieks and soothing strains
Are like forever mute.