THE FEAR OF MADNESS

by: Lucretia Davidson (1808-1825)

HERE is 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]