There is something which I dread,
— — It is a dark, a fearful thing;
It steals along with withering tread,
— — Or sweeps on wild destruction's wing.

That thought comes o'er me in the hour
— — Of grief, of sickness, or of sadness;
'Tis not the dread of death — 'tis more,
— — It is the dread of madness.

O! may these throbbing pulses pause,
— — Forgetful of their feverish course;
May this hot brain, which, burning, glows
— — With all its fiery whirlpool's force,

Be cold, and motionless, and still,
— — A tenant of its lowly bed,
But let not dark delirium steal —
[ Unfinished ]