Classic Poem

S WELL the clarion, sweep the string,
Blow into rage the Muse's fires!
All thy answers, Echo, bring,
Let wood and dale, let rock and valley ring,
'Tis Madness' self inspires.

Hail, awful Madness, hail!
Thy realm extends, thy powers prevail,
Far as the voyager spreads his ventrous sail.
Nor best nor wisest are exempt from thee;
Folly — Folly's only free.

Hark! — To the astonish'd ear
The gale conveys a strange tumultuous sound.
They now approach, they now appear, —
Frenzy leads her chorus near,
And demons dance around. —

Pride — Ambition idly vain,
Revenge and Malice swell her train, —
Devotion warp'd — Affection crost —
Hope in disappointment lost —
And injur'd Merit, with a downcast eye,
(Hurt by neglect) slow stalking heedless by.

Loud the shouts of Madness rise,
Various voices, various cries,
Mirth unmeaning — causeless moans,
Bursts of laughter — heart-felt groans —
All seem to pierce the skies. —

Rough as the wintry wave, that roars
On Thule's desart shores,
Wild raving to the' unfeeling air,
The fetter'd Maniac foams along,
(Rage the burden of his jarring song)
In rage he grinds his teeth, and rends his streaming hair.

No pleasing memory left — forgotten quite
All former scenes of dear delight;
Connubial love — parental joy —
No sympathies like these his soul employ,
— But all is dark within, all furious black depair.

Not so the love-lorn Maid,
By too much tenderness betray'd;
Her gentle breast no angry passion fires,
But slighted vows possess, and fainting, soft desires.

She yet retains her wonted flame,
All — but in reason, still the same: —
Streaming eyes,
Incessant sighs,
Dim haggard looks, and clouded o'er with care,
Point out to Pity's tears the poor distracted Fair.
Dead to the world — her fondest wishes cross'd,
She mourns herself thus early lost. —

Now, sadly gay, of sorrows past she sings,
Now, pensive, ruminates unutterable things:
She starts — she flies — who dares so rude
On her sequester'd steps intrude? —

'Tis he — the Momus of the flighty train —
Merry mischief fills his brain.
Blanket-rob'd, and antic-crown'd,
The mimic monarch skips around;
Big with conceit of dignity he smiles,
And plots his frolics quaint, and unsuspected wiles. —

Laughter was there — but mark that groan,
Drawn from the inmost soul!
" Give the knife, demons, or the poison'd bowl,
To finish miseries equal to your own." —

Who's this wretch, with horror wild? —
— 'Tis Devotion's ruin'd child: —
Sunk in the emphasis of grief,
Nor can he feel, nor dares he ask relief. —

Thou, fair Religion, wast design'd,
Duteous daughter of the skies,
To warm and cheer the human mind,
To make men happy, good, and wise.

To point where sits, in love array'd,
Attentive to each suppliant call,
The God of universal aid,
The God, the Father of us all!

First shown by thee, thus glow'd the gracious scene,
Till Superstition, fiend of woe,
Bade doubts to rise, and tears to flow,
And spread deep shades our view and Heaven between.

Drawn by her pencil the Creator stands,
(His beams of mercy thrown aside)
With thunder arming his uplifted hands,
And hurling vengeance wide:
Hope, at the frown aghast, yet lingering, flies,
And dash'd on Terror's rocks, Fate's best dependance lies.

But ah! — too thick they crowd, — too close they throng,
Objects of pity and affright! —
Spare farther the descriptive song —
Nature shudders at the sight: —
Protract not, curious ears, the mournful tale,
But o'er the hapless group, low drop Compassion's veil.