  A story is told in Spain, of a woman, who, by a sudden shock of domestic calamity, became insane, and ever after looked up incessantly to the sky. O'er her infant's couch of death, Bent a widowed mother low; And the quick, convulsive breath Marked the inward weight of woe. Round the fair child's forehead clung Golden tresses, damp and bright; While Death's pinion o'er it hung, And the parted lips grew white. When the latest pang was o'er; Then she raised her gaze on high, Turned it earthward nevermore. By the dark and silent tomb, Where they laid the dead to rest; By the empty cradle's gloom, And the fireside once so blest; In the lone and narrow cell, Fettered by the clanking chain, Where the maniac's piercing yell Thrilled the heart with dread and pain;— Upward still she fixed her gaze, Tearless and bewildered too, Speaking of the fearful night Madness o'er the spirit threw; Death removed the veil of Time, Raised the broken heart above, To the far-off healing clime. Mortal! o'er the field of Life Pressing with uncertain tread; Mourning, in the torrent strife, Blessings lost and pleasures fled;— A sublimer faith was taught By the maniac's frenzied eye, Than Philosophy e'er caught From intensest thought and high. When the heart is crushed and broken By the death-bell's sullen chime, By the faded friendship's token, Or the wild remorse of crime, But beyond her light and shade, Toward the blue skies look forever: God, and God alone, can aid. |
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