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MARY.
I.
Who is she, the poor Maniac, whose wildly-fix'd eyes
Seem a heart overcharged to express?
She weeps not, yet often and deeply she sighs:
She never complains, but her silence implies
The composure of settled distress.
Who is she, the poor Maniac, whose wildly-fix'd eyes
Seem a heart overcharged to express?
She weeps not, yet often and deeply she sighs:
She never complains, but her silence implies
The composure of settled distress.
II.
No aid, no compassion the Maniac will seek;
Cold and hunger awake not her care:
Thro' her rags do the winds of the winter blow bleak
On her poor wither'd bosom half bare, and her cheek
Has the deathy pale hue of despair.
No aid, no compassion the Maniac will seek;
Cold and hunger awake not her care:
Thro' her rags do the winds of the winter blow bleak
On her poor wither'd bosom half bare, and her cheek
Has the deathy pale hue of despair.
