'Alas, what drove him mad?' 'I cannot say: _245 A lady came with him from France, and when She left him and returned, he wandered then About yon lonely isles of desert sand Till he grew wild--he had no cash or land Remaining,--the police had brought him here-- _250 Some fancy took him and he would not bear Removal; so I fitted up for him Those rooms beside the sea, to please his whim, And sent him busts and books and urns for flowers, Which had adorned his life in happier hours, _255 And instruments of music--you may guess A stranger could do little more or less For one so gentle and unfortunate: And those are his sweet strains which charm the weight From madmen's chains, and make this Hell appear _260 A heaven of sacred silence, hushed to hear.'-- 'Nay, this was kind of you--he had no claim, As the world says'--'None--but the very same Which I on all mankind were I as he Fallen to such deep reverse;--his melody _265 Is interrupted--now we hear the din Of madmen, shriek on shriek, again begin; Let us now visit him; after this strain He ever communes with himself again, And sees nor hears not any.' Having said _270 These words, we called the keeper, and he led To an apartment opening on the sea-- There the poor wretch was sitting mournfully Near a piano, his pale fingers twined One with the other, and the ooze and wind _275 Rushed through an open casement, and did sway His hair, and starred it with the brackish spray; His head was leaning on a music book, And he was muttering, and his lean limbs shook; His lips were pressed against a folded leaf _280 In hue too beautiful for health, and grief Smiled in their motions as they lay apart-- As one who wrought from his own fervid heart The eloquence of passion, soon he raised His sad meek face and eyes lustrous and glazed _285 And spoke--sometimes as one who wrote, and thought His words might move some heart that heeded not, If sent to distant lands: and then as one Reproaching deeds never to be undone With wondering self-compassion; then his speech _290 Was lost in grief, and then his words came each Unmodulated, cold, expressionless,-- But that from one jarred accent you might guess It was despair made them so uniform: And all the while the loud and gusty storm _295 Hissed through the window, and we stood behind Stealing his accents from the envious wind Unseen. I yet remember what he said Distinctly: such impression his words made.