Hospital for Lunatics

What various pictures changeful man appears In youth, in love, in learning and in years, In arts, in arms, in genius, madness last; What then is youth, love, genius, learning past; Great Swift the pride and terror of the world Sunk to this state, by madness he was hurl'd, His daring flights were levell'd with the low, Down to a moving spectacle of woe; Then admiration ceas'd and pity came, Awaken'd keener by his shining fame,— Yet all his piercing genius could not save His understanding from confusion's grave. God lent him genius, art supply'd him lore, But robb'd of reason these could shine no more. Reason's the man, whate'er, the fool may say, It clearly guides him from each beastly way: Take this, what then? he's beast or what you will, A human figure without human skill. Reason's to life what life is to the man, It humanizes nature's skillful plan; Without it man is but the human form, That wears his shape like bird, beast, fish or worm.

Here see the maniac raging round his cell, And to the walls his roving sorrows tell, Still in his eye he sees the talking croud, And questions freely and converses 'loud; Strongly impress'd by some distresses past, The only thoughts that haunt him to the last— Then he complains—scarce thinks about his fate— Sometimes he's happy in this mournful state, Counts o'er his lands, his houses, fortunes, friends In nameless thousands on his finger ends; Then doubtful reason wakes him from his dream, Lost are his lands, his fortunes, friends & fame, 'Where am I! 'tis not my wonted home indeed, He says, and then his heart begins to bleed; Distress o'erwhelms, madness comes again, And 'wakes a new the mental roving flame— He starts—then pauses—stares then looks around— Then talks—now stops and listens for a sound, Lost state of nature! awful madness hail! Muse snatch the phrenzy and its flights reveal. Ah! see the ruins faithless love has made In the 'lorn damsel wantonly betray'd, The sad deceiver of her youthful heart Completes the mournful measure of her smart Still in her mind the foremost and the last, She doats unceasing on their moments past. With hands enclaspt and low dejected eye Speechless she sits and vents the rising sigh; But seldom weeps; for grief when most severe Is ne'er distinguish'd by the falling tear; And silent hears her visitors request To know the loaded troubles of her breast— But if they chance the perjur'd dog to name, The faithful fool is boundless in his fame.— " Yes he was fair—and promis'd fairer too— " He's marri'd now—are you his wife?—be true?— " And tell me right—Oh no, he's dead they say, " But yet me thought I had him t'other day— " Go fetch him quick, and say Maria sends— " No stop—'twould get him anger from his friends.— " Sweeter than roses!—yes I pull'd these flow'rs " To deck my lover!—but he's gone ye pow'rs. " He'll surely come to night—ah no he'll not, " Poor lost Maria is by him forgot. " My little angel too is gone to heav'n— " Won'tall our sins—yes yes they'll be forgiv'n." Thus floats her brain as fleeting fancy teems Her frantic pictures o'er her waking dreams.