Death of a Young Lady at the Retreat for the Insane

Youth glows upon her blossom'd cheek,Glad beauty in her eye,And fond affections pure and meekHer every want supply:Why doth her glance so wildly roveSome fancied foe to find?What dark dregs stir her cup of love?Go ask the sickening mind!

They bear her where with cheering smileThe hope of healing reignsFor those whom morbid Fancy's wileIn torturing bond constrains;Where Mercy spreads an angel-wingTo do her Father's will,And heaven-instructed plucks the stingFrom Earth's severest ill.

Yet o'er that sufferer's drooping headNo balm of Gilead stole,Diseas'd Imagination spreadDark chaos o'er the soul;But recollected truths sublimeStill fed Devotion's stream,And beings from a sinless climeBlent with her broken dream.

Then came a coffin and a shroud,And many a bursting sigh,

With shrieks of laughter long and loud,From those who knew not why;For she, whom Reason's fickle rayOft wilder'd and distress'dHush'd in unwonted slumber lay,A cold and dreamless rest.

Think ye of Heaven! how glorious brightWill break its vision clear,On souls that rose from earthly nightAll desolate and drear;So ye who laid that stricken formDown to its willing sleep,Snatch'd like a flowret from the storm,Weep not as others weep.