Zinzendorff and Other Poems/Death of Dr. Todd, the Principal of the Retreat for the Insane, in Conn.
DEATH OF DR. TODD, THE PRINCIPAL OF THE RETREAT FOR THE INSANE, IN CONN.
Few have been mourned like thee. The wise and good
Do gather many weepers round their tomb,
And true Affection makes her heart an urn
For the departed idol, till that heart
Is ashes. With such sorrow art thou mourned,
And more than this. There is a cry of woe
Within the halls of yon majestic dome—
A tide of grief, which Reason may not check,
Nor Faith's deep anchor fathom.
Straining eyes
That gaze on vacancy, do search for thee,
Whose wand could put to flight the fancied ills
Of sick imagination. The wrecked heart
Keepeth the echo of thy soothing voice
An everlasting sigh within its cells,
And morbidly upon that music feeds.
Mind's broken column 'mid its ruins bears
Thy chiselled features. Thy dark eye looks forth
From Memory's watch-tower on the phrenzy dream,
Ruling its imagery, or with strange power
Controlling madness, as the shepherd's harp
Subdued the moody wrath of Israel's king.
Even where the links of thought and speech are broke,
'Mid that most absolute and perfect wreck,
When throneless Reason flies her idiot-foe,
Thou hast a place. The fragments of the soul
Do bear thine impress—shadowy, yet endeared,
And multiplied by countless miseries.
Beside some happy hearth, where fire-side joys
And renovated health, and heaven-born hope
Swell high in contrast with the maniac's cell,
Thou art remembered by some grateful heart,
With the deep rapture of that lunatic,
Whom Jesus healed.
But there's a wail for thee
From throngs whom this unpitying world doth cast
Out of her company, the scorned, the banned,
The excommunicate. Thou wert their friend—
Thy wasting midnight vigil was for them:
The toil, the watching, and the stifled pang
That stamped thee as a martyr, were for them.
They could not thank thee, save with that strange shriek
Which wounds the gentle ear. Yet thou didst walk
In thy high ministry of love and power,
As a magician 'mid their spectre-foes
And burning visions. Thou didst mark sublime
Death's angel sweeping o'er thy studious page,
And, at his chill monition, laying down
The boasted treasures of philosophy
Didst clothe thyself in meekness, as a child
Waiting the father's will.
And so farewell,
Thou full of love to all whom God hath made,
Thou tuned to melody, go home! go home!
Where music hath no dissonance, and Love
Doth poise forever on her perfect wing.