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MANCHESTER, &c.
33
Surprise—The Maniac's Song.
Sees unappall'd her spouse the storm direct,
And all our earth his fiery form reflect;
Whilst every object, cloath'd in silvery hue,
With momentary radiance strikes the view.
But, hark! what fairy voice floats mournful near,
Steals o'er the sense, and strikes the raptured ear?
Softly ye winds, be every sigh represt,
Whilst magic numbers sooth the throbbing breast:
Let graver thoughts to music's powers unbend,
And pleasing languor o'er the mind descend;
And whilst the notes swell on the trembling gale,
Let gentle pity weep the mournful tale.
And all our earth his fiery form reflect;
Whilst every object, cloath'd in silvery hue,
With momentary radiance strikes the view.
But, hark! what fairy voice floats mournful near,
Steals o'er the sense, and strikes the raptured ear?
Softly ye winds, be every sigh represt,
Whilst magic numbers sooth the throbbing breast:
Let graver thoughts to music's powers unbend,
And pleasing languor o'er the mind descend;
And whilst the notes swell on the trembling gale,
Let gentle pity weep the mournful tale.
THE MANIAC'S SONG.
The sod is his pillow, the cold earth his bed,
Whilst I, a poor maniac, wander forlorn,
Or pluck the pale primrose, his grave to o'erspread,
Or wash it with tears from evening to morn.
The sod is his pillow, the cold earth his bed,
Whilst I, a poor maniac, wander forlorn,
Or pluck the pale primrose, his grave to o'erspread,
Or wash it with tears from evening to morn.
