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Hail, awful Madness, hail! Thy realm extends, thy powers prevail, Far as the voyager spreads his venturous sail. Nor best nor wisest are exempt from thee; Folly—Folly's only free.

Hark !—To the astonish'd ear The gale conveys a strange tumultuous sound. They now approach, they now appear,—

Phrenzy leads her chorus near

And Demon's dance around.—

Pride—Ambition idly vain,

Revenge, and malice swell her train,—.

Devotion warp'd — Affection crost—
Hope in disappointment lost—
And injured merit, with a downcast eye,
Hurt by neglect, slow stalking heedless by.
Loud the shouts of madness rise
Various voices, various cries,
Mirth unmeaning—causeless moans,
Bursts of laughter—heart-felt groans —
All seem to pierce the skies.—

Rough* as the wintry wave, that wars On Thule's desert shores, Wild raving to the unfeeling air, The fetter'd maniac foams along, (Rage the burden of his jarring song) In rage he grinds his teeth, and rends his streaming hair.

No pleasing memory left—forgotten quite All former scenes of dear delight, Connubial love—parental joy— No sympathies like these his soul employ, —But all is dark within, all furious black despair.

Not so the love-lorn maid,
By too much tenderness betray'd ,
Her gentle breast no angry passion fires,
But slighted vows possess, and fainting, soft
desires.

She yet retains her wonted flame,
"AH—but in reason, still the same.—

Streaming eyes,

Incessant sighs.

Dim haggard looks, and clouded o'er with care,

Point out to pity's tears, the poor distracted fair.

Dead to the world—her fondest wishes crost!
She mourns herself thus early lost.—

Now, sadly gay, of sorrows past she sings,
Now, pensive, ruminates unutterable things.
She shouts— she flies—who dares so rude
On her sequester'd steps intrude ?—
'Tis he—the Momus of the flighty train.
Merry Mischief fills his train.
Blanket-robed, and antick crown'd,
The mimick monarch skips around!
Big with conceit of dignity he smiles,
And plots his frolics quaint, and unexpected
"wiles,—

laughter was there—but mark that groan,

Drawn from his inmost soul! "Give the knife, Demons, or the poison'd bowl, "To finish miseries equal to your own"—

Who's this wretch, with horror wild !—

—'Tis devotion's ruin'd child.—

Sunk in the emphasis of grief,

Nor can'he feel, nor dares he ask relief.—

Thou, fair Religion, wast design'd,"
Duteous daughter of the skies,
To warm, and cheer the human mind,
To make men happy, good and wise.
To point where sits, in love array'd,
Attentive to each suppliant call,
The God of universal aid,
The God, the Father of us all.

First shown by thee, thus glow'd the gracious scene,

'Till Superstition, friend of woe, Bade doubts to rise, and tears to flow, And spread deep shades our view and heaven between.

Drawn by her pencil the Creator stands, His beams of mercy thrown aside, With thunder arming his uplifted hands, And hurling vengeance wide. Hope, at the frown aghast, yet lingering, flies, And dash'd on terrour's rocks, Faith's best dependence lies.

But ah!—too thick they crowd,—too'close they throng,

Objects of pity and affright!—

Spare farther the descriptive song-
Nature shudders at the sight.—
Protract not, curious ears, the mournful tale,

But o'er the hapless groupe, low drop compassion's veil.

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