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.
