THE MANIAC'S SONG.
"I tire of the land, with its gardens and bowers,
Its verdure and beauty, its fruits and its flowers;
The earth seems a tomb where my hopes are all laid—
See Death, the grim sexton, he leans on his spade.
Its verdure and beauty, its fruits and its flowers;
The earth seems a tomb where my hopes are all laid—
See Death, the grim sexton, he leans on his spade.
Haste, bear me away to my home, to the grave,
Make the ocean my bed, my pillow the wave;
Though rudely the tempest above me may sweep,
'Twill serve but to lull me more gently to sleep.
Make the ocean my bed, my pillow the wave;
Though rudely the tempest above me may sweep,
'Twill serve but to lull me more gently to sleep.
A crown for my head will old Neptune prepare,
The mermaids shall make me their tenderest care;
With them will I watch o'er the slumbering dead,
Unheeding the billows that break o'er my head.
The mermaids shall make me their tenderest care;
With them will I watch o'er the slumbering dead,
Unheeding the billows that break o'er my head.
My palace with gems richly studded shall be,
A fitting abode for those nymphs of the sea,
Who waft to my door in their chariots of foam
Poor mortals who ne'er will see kindred or home.
A fitting abode for those nymphs of the sea,
Who waft to my door in their chariots of foam
Poor mortals who ne'er will see kindred or home.
How it dazzles my eyes, that light in the skies—
The sun shines at midnight—I see it arise;
The sun shines at midnight—I see it arise;
