Rhode Island American

MISCELLANY

FROM THE LONDON LITERARY GAZETTE

POETICAL CATALOGUE OF PICTURES.

A Maniac visited by his family in Confinement.

BY DAVIS.

His arms are bound with iron, tho' they look

Weak as a child's, for they are thin and withered,

And the large veins seem drained. Upon his cheek

Is scarcely left one single hue of life.

So gaunt, so ghastly, and the fierce dark eyes

Set in their vacancy, scowl from beneath

The shaggy eye-brows like the lightning fires

Sent out from the grey cloud. For many years

His bed has been upon that cold stone floor--

It is worn with the pressure of his limbs.

For many years he has not breathed the air,

The wholesome open air; the sun, the moon,

The stars, the clouds, the fair blue heaven, the spring

The flowers, the trees, the sweet face of man,

Song, or words yet more musical than song,

Affections, feelings, social intercourse,

Have all been strangers to his solitude!--

(Unless remembered in his fairy dreams.)

A curse is set on him like poverty,

Or leprosy, or the red plague, but worse--

The heart has sent its fire up to the brain,

And he is mad. What can have made this wreck?

He was once young and beautiful, and brave;

Trusting, as noble spirits ever are;

And he was wronged, betrayed, tortured, deceived;

Heard calumny come from the lips of friends

Whom he had served; lost riches by false tongues;

But that he might have borne--till she he lov'd,

The mother of his children, left his roof

With one who owed him life and home, yet paid

His blessing with a curse! Then he grew mad,

And was chained down to a dungeon-floor--

A heart-sick, solitary wretch!---

There are sweet faces bending near his own:

A pale girl, beautiful as innocence,

With white hands clasped in pity and in prayer,

The daughter of the Maniac, who has come

In vain hope that dread insanity

Will feel the influence of her soothing voice.

And two fair boys are with her: one who clings

Around his brother, panting with the fear

Of simple childhood, while the other's eyes

Have less of dread than sorrow. Still no look

Of love nor memory from their father comes;

He sits with clenching teeth and grasping hands,

Regardless of the gentle pity

Which even the hard jailer, whose harsh brow

Has no lines of compassion, even he,

Feels, almost moved to sadness!