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Amelia Opie - To a Maniac
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There was a time, poor phrensied maid,
When I could o`er thy grief have mourned,
And still with tears the tale repaid
Of sense by sorrow`s sway o`erturned.

But now thy state my envy moves:
For thou art woe`s unconscious prize;
Thy heart no sense of suffering proves,
No fruitless tears bedew thine eyes.

Excess of sorrow, kind to thee,
At once destroyed thy reason`s power;
But reason still remains to me,
And only bids me grieve the more.
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