Poems (Davidson)/The Fear of Madness
THE FEAR OF MADNESS.
WRITTEN WHILE CONFINED TO HER BED, DURING HER LAST ILLNESS,
There is a something which I dread, It is a dark, a fearful thing;It steals along with withering tread, Or sweeps on wild destruction's wing.
That thought comes o'er me in the hour Of grief, of sickness, or of sadness;'Tis not the dread of death—'tis more, It is the dread of madness.
O! may these throbbing pulses pause, Forgetful of their feverish course;May this hot brain, which, burning, glows With all its fiery whirlpool's force,
Be cold, and motionless, and still, A tenant of its lowly bed,But let not dark delirium steal—··········[Unfinished.]
1825.