'Tis sure some dream--some vision vain! What! I--the child of rank and wealth,-- Am I the wretch who clanks this chain, Bereft of freedom, friends, and health? Ah! while I dwell on blessings fled, Which never more my heart must glad, How aches my heart, how burns my head; But 'tis not mad; no, 'tis not mad. Hast thou, my child, forgot, ere this, A mother's face, a mother's tongue? She'll never forget your parting kiss, Nor round her neck how fast you clung; Nor how with her you sued to stay; Nor how that suit your sire forbade; Nor how--I'll drive such thoughts away! They'll make me mad, they'll make me mad. His rosy lips, how sweet they smiled! His mild blue eyes, how bright they shone! None ever bore a lovelier child: And art thou now forever gone? And must I never see thee more, My pretty, pretty, pretty lad? I will be free! unbar the door! I am not mad, I am not mad. Oh! hark! what mean those yells and cries? His chain some furious madman breaks; He comes!--I see his glaring eyes; Now, now, my dungeon-grate he shakes-- Help! help!--He's gone!--Oh! fearful woe, Such screams to hear, such sights to see! My brain, my brain,--I know, I know, I am not mad, but soon shall be. Yes, soon; for lo you!--while I speak-- Mark how yon demon's eyeballs glare! He sees me; now, with dreadful shriek, He whirls a serpent high in air. Horror!--the reptile strikes his tooth Deep in my heart, so crushed and sad;-- Ay, laugh, ye fiends;--I feel the truth; Your task is done--I'm mad! I'm mad! Lewis. CCXXVIII. RIENZI TO THE ROMANS.