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Classic and Contemporary Poetry

THE MANIAC by MARY DARBY ROBINSON

First Line: AH! WHAT ART THOU, WHOSE EYE-BALLS ROLL
Last Line: AND WITH SOFT PITY'S BALM ENCHANT THEE TO REPOSE.
Subject(s): INSANITY; PAIN; MADNESS; MENTAL ILLNESS; SUFFERING; MISERY;
Ah! what art thou, whose eye-balls roll
Like Heralds of the wand'ring soul,
While down thy cheek the scalding torrents flow?
Why does that agonizing shriek
Thy mind's unpitied anguish speak?
O tell me, thing forlorn! And let me share thy woe.

Why dost thou rend thy matted hair,
And beat thy burning bosom bare?
Why is thy lip so parch'd, thy groan so deep?
Why dost thou fly from cheerful light,
And seek in caverns mid-day night,
And cherish thoughts untold, and banish gentle sleep?

Why dost thou from thy scanty bed
Tear the rude straw to crown thy head,
And nod with ghastly smile, and wildly sing?
While down thy pale distorted face
Thy crystal drops each other chase,
As though thy brain were drown'd in one eternal spring?

Why dost thou climb yon craggy steep,
That frowns upon the clam'rous deep,
And howl, responsive to the waves below?
Or on the margin of the rock
Thy Sov'reign Orb exulting mock,
And waste the freezing night in pacing to and fro?

Why dost thou strip the fairest bow'rs,
To dress thy scowling brow with flow'rs,
And fling thy tatter'd garment to the wind?
Why madly dart from cave to cave,
Now laugh and sing, then weep and rave,
And round thy naked limbs fantastic fragments bind?

Why dost thou drink the midnight dew,
Slow trickling from the baneful yew,
Stretch'd on a pallet of sepulchral stone;
While, in her solitary tow'r,
The Minstrel of the witching hour
Sits half congeal'd with fear, to hear thy dismal moan?

Thy form upon the cold earth cast,
Now grown familiar with the blast,
Defies the biting frost and scorching sun:
All Seasons are alike to thee;
Thy sense, unchain'd by Destiny,
Resists, with dauntless pride, all miseries but one!

Fix not thy steadfast gaze on me,
Shrunk atom of mortality!
Nor freeze my blood with thy distracted groan;
Ah! quickly turn those eyes away,
They fill my soul with dire dismay,
For dead and dark they seem, and almost chill'd to stone!

Yet, if thy scatter'd senses stray
Where Reason scorns to lend a ray,
Or if Despair supreme usurps her throne,
Oh! let me all thy sorrows know;
With thine my mingling tear shall flow,
And I will share thy pangs, and make thy griefs my own.

Hath Love unlock'd thy feeling breast,
And stol'n from thence the balm of rest?
Then far away on purple pinions borne,
Left only keen regret behind,
To tear with poison'd fangs thy mind,
While barb'rous Mem'ry lives, and bids thee hopeless mourn?

Does Fancy to thy straining arms
Give thee false Nymph in all her charms,
And with her airy voice beguile thee so,
That Sorrow seems to pass away,
Till the blithe harbinger of day
Awakes thee from thy dream, and yields thee back to woe?

Say, have the bonds of Friendship fail'd,
Or jealous pangs thy mind assail'd;
While black Ingratitude, with ranc'rous tooth,
Pierc'd the fine fibres of thy heart,
And fest'ring every sensate part,
Dim'd with contagious breath the crimson glow of youth?

Or has stern Fate, with ruthless hand,
Dash'd on some wild untrodden strand
Thy little bark, with all thy fortunes fraught;
While thou didst watch the stormy night
Upon some bleak rock's fearful height,
Till thy hot brain consum'd with desolating thought?

Ah! wretch forlorn, perchance thy breast,
By the cold fangs of Avarice press'd,
Grew hard and torpid by her touch profane;
Till Famine pinch'd thee to the bone,
And mental torture made thee own
That thing the most accurs'd, who drags her endless chain!

Or say, does flush'd Ambition's wing
Around thy fev'rish temples fling
Dire incense, smoking from th' ensanguin'd plain,
That, drain'd from bleeding warriors' hearts,
Swift to thy shatter'd sense imparts
The victor's savage joy, that thrills through ev'ry vein?

Does not the murky gloom of night
Give to thy view some murd'rous sprite,
Whose poniard gleams along thy cell forlorn;
And when the Sun expands his ray,
Dost thou not shun the jocund day,
And mutter curses deep, and hate the ruddy Morn?

And yet the Morn on rosy wing
Could once to thee its raptures bring,
And Mirth's enliv'ning song delight thine ear;
While Hope thine eye-lids could unclose
From the sweet slumbers of repose,
To tell thee Love's gay throng of tender joys were near!

Or hast thou stung with poignant smart
The orphan's and the widow's heart,
And plung'd them in cold Poverty's abyss;
While Conscience, like a vulture, stole
To feed upon thy tortur'd soul,
And tear each barb'rous sense from transitory bliss?

Or hast thou seen some gentle maid,
By thy deluding voice betray'd,
Fade like a flow'r, slow with'ring with remorse?
And didst thou then refuse to save
Thy victim from an early grave,
Till at thy feet she lay a pale and ghastly corse?

Oh! tell me, tell me all thy pain;
Pour to mine ear thy frenzied strain,
And I will share thy pangs, and soothe thy woes!
Poor MANIAC! I will dry thy tears,
And bathe thy wounds, and calm thy fears,
And with soft Pity's balm enchant thee to repose.



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