To A Maniac.

TO A MANIAC.

THERE was a time, poor phrensied maid, When I could o'er thy grief have mourned, And still with tears the tale repaid Of sense by sorrow's sway o'erturned.

But now thy state my envy moves: For thou art woe's unconscious prize; Thy heart no sense of suffering proves, No fruitless tears bedew thine eyes.

Excess of sorrow, kind to thee, At once destroyed thy reason's power; But reason still remains to me, And only bids me grieve the more.