Abraham Lincoln for Ant

But Here's an Object

But here's an object more of dread

Than aught the grave contains

A human form with reason fled

While wretched life remains.

Poor Matthew!  Once of genius bright, 

A fortune-favored child

Now locked in aye, in mental night, 

A haggard mad-man wild.

Poor Matthew! I have ne'er forgot,

When first, with maddened will, 

Yourself you maimed, your father fought, 

And mother strove to kill;

When terror spread, and neighbors ran,

You dangerous strength to bind;

And soon , a howling crazy man

Your limbs were fast confined.

How then you strove and shrieked aloud,

'Your bones and sinews bared;

And fiendish on the gazing crowd, 

with burning eyeballs glared

And begged and swore, and wept and prayed, 

With maniac laughter joined

How fearful were those signs displayed

By pangs that killed the mind!

And when at length, tho" drear and long

Time soothed they fiercer woes, 

How plaintively thy mournful song

Upon the still night rose!

I've heard it oft, as if I dreamed,

Far distant , sweet and lone, 

The funeral dirge, it ever seemed

Of reason dead and gone.

To drink its strains I've stole away, 

All stealthily and still, 

Ere yet the rising god of day

Had streaked the eastern hill.

Air held his breath; trees, with the spell,

Seemed sorrowing angels round, 

Whose swelling tears in dewdrops fell

Upon the listening ground.

But this is past, and naught remains

that raised thee  o'er the brute;

Thy piercing shrieks and soothing strains

Are like, forever mute.

Now fare thee well, more thou the cause

than subject  now of woe. 

All mental pangs, by time's kind laws, 

Hast lost the power to know

O death!  Thou awe-inspirign prince, 

That keepst the world in fear;

Why dost thou tear more blest ones hence, 

and leave him  ling' ring here?