Will, the Maniac.

Hark! what wild sound is on the breeze? 'Tis Will, at evening fall Who sings to yonder waving trees That shade his prison wall.

Poor Will was once the gayest swain At village dance was seen; No freer heart of wicked stain E'er tripp'd the moonlight green.

His flock was all his humble pride, A finer ne'er was shorn; And only when a lambkin died Had Will a cause to mourn.

But now poor William's brain is turn'd, He knows no more his flock; For when I ask'd "if them he mourn'd," He mock'd the village clock.

No, William does not mourn his fold, Though tenantless and drear; Some say, a love he never told Did crush his heart with fear.

And she, 'tis said, for whom he pin'd Was heiress of the land, A lovely lady, pure of mind Of open heart and hand.

And others tell, as how he strove To win the noble fair. Who, scornful, jeer'd his simple love. And left him to despair.

Will wander'd then amid the rocks Through all the live long day, And oft would creep where bursting shocks Had rent the earth away.

He lov'd to delve the darksome dell Where never pierc'd a ray, There to the wailing night-bird tell, 'How love was turn'd to clay.'

And oft upon yon craggy mount, Where threatening cliffs hang high, Have I observ'd him stop to count With fixless stare the sky.