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 repaid
 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.