BEHOLD yonder Maniac! how swiftly she flies,
O’er hills, and o’er mountains, still deep’ning her sighs,
She laughs at the trav’ller who mourns her sad lot,
Him wildly she shuns, and each habited cot.
Whilst frantic she wanders, her bosom to ease,
She sings to the winds, and she sighs to the trees;
The tears from her eyes in true bitterness flow,
But nought can relieve her sad heart from its woe.
Yet ANNA was once both so beauteous and gay,
The bloom on her cheek was as fresh as the May,
Till HENRY her love, by a pitiless storm
Torn far from her dwelling, soon wither’d her form.
Now hapless she wanders, despair by her side,
Singing, “Oh if my love, if my love had not died!”
As the winds shake the trees, she oft cries with a tear,
The breeze softly rises, and HENRY is near.
Then quickly from all the poor maniac still flies,
Unheard are our prayers, and unfelt are our sighs;
To shield the fair maid from the wind and the rain,
How oft we’ve endeavour’d, endeavour’d in vain.
Bright reason, ah! never will dawn on her mind,
For peace has her bosom for ever resign’d;
And the grave soon will hide her keen woes from our sight,
There sweetly she’ll sleep, in the bosom of night.
(Emma Lyon)
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Based on Topics: Love Poems, Night Poems, Mind Poems, Nature Poems, Fairness Poems, Sense & Perception Poems, Sleep Poems, Prayers Poems, Reasoning Poems, Singing PoemsBased on Keywords: ller, habited, trav, maniac