To a Maniac

There was a time, poor phrensied maid,

When I could o'er thy grief have mourned,

And still with tears the tale

Of sense by sorrow's sway o'erturned.

But now thy state my envy moves:

For thou art woe's unconscious prize;

Thy heart no sense of suffering proves,

No fruitless tears bedew thine eyes.

Excess of sorrow, kind to thee,

At once destroyed thy reason's power;

But reason still remains to me,

And only bids me grieve the more.