The Maniac.

On a tall cliff that overhung the deep,
A maniac stood. He heeded not the sweep
Of the swift gale that lashed the troubled main,
And spread with showery foam the watery plain.
His reckless foot was on the dizzy line
That edged the rock, impending o'er the brine;
His form was bent, and leaning from the height,
Like the light gull whose wing is stretched for flight.
Far down beneath his feet, the surges broke;
Above his head the pealing thunders spoke;
Around him flashed the lightning's ruddy glare,
And rushing torrents swept along the air.
But nought he heeded, save a gallant sail
That on the sea was wrestling with the gale.
Far on the ocean's billowy verge she hung,
And strove to shun the storm that landward swung.
With many a tack she turned her bending side
To the rude blast, and bravely stemmed the tide.
In vain! the bootless strife with fate is o'er
And the doomed vessel nears the iron shore.
A mighty bird, she seems, whose wing is rent
By the red shaft from heaven's fierce quiver sent.
Her mast is shivered and her helm is lashed,
Around her prow the kindled waves are dashed
And as an eagle swooping in its might,
Toward the dark cliff she speeds her headlong flight.
She comes, she strikes! the trembling wave withdraws,
And the hushed elements a moment pause;
Then swelling high above their helpless prey,
The billows burst, and bear the wreck away!

One look to heaven the raptured Maniac cast,
One low breathed murmur from his bosom passed:
'God of the soul and sea! I read thy choice
Told by the shipwreck and the whirlwind's voice.
In this dread omen I can trace my doom,
And hear thee bid me seek an ocean-tomb.
Like the lost ship my weary mind hath striven
With the wild tempest o'er my spirit driven;
That strife is done and the dim caverned sea
Of this wrecked bosom must the mansion be.
Thou who canst bid the billows cease to roll,
Oh! smooth a pillow for my weary soul
Watch o'er the pilgrim in his shadowy sleep,
And send sweet dreams to light the sullen deep!'

Thus spoke the maniac, while above he gazed,
And his pale hands beseechingly upraised;
Then on the viewless wind he swiftly sprung,
And far below his senseless form was flung;
A thin white spray told where he met the wave,
And battling surges thunder o'er his grave!

Samuel Griswold Goodrich

Samuel Griswold Goodrich, born on August 19, 1793, and passing away on May 9, 1860, was an American author notable for his numerous children's books. Writing under the pseudonym 'Peter Parley,' he was a significant literary figure in the 19th century. Goodrich’s works were known for their educational content, aiming to teach young readers about history, geography, and other subjects in an engaging manner. His publications had a lasting impact on American children's literature.

Samuel Griswold Goodrich

The Rose: To Ellen.

Samuel Griswold Goodrich, Simple Poetry

The Rainbow Bridge.

Samuel Griswold Goodrich, Simple Poetry

The Golden Dream.

Samuel Griswold Goodrich, Simple Poetry

The Surf Sprite.

Samuel Griswold Goodrich, Simple Poetry

English

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The Maniac.

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.

Reason left the mother's eye,
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,

Mary Gardiner Horsford