But Here's An Object More Of Dread

                  But here's an object more of dread

                    Than aught the grave contains--

                  A human form with reason fled,

                    While wretched life remains.

                  When terror spread, and neighbors ran

                    Your 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 these signs displayed

                    By pangs that killed the mind!

                  And when at length the drear and long

                    Time soothed thy 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 her 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-inspiring prince

                    That keepst the world in fear,

                  Why dost thou tear more blest ones hence,

                    And leave him lingering here?

Lincoln wrote:The subject of the present one is an insane man; his name is Matthew Gentry. He is three years older than I, and when we were boys we went to school together. He was rather a bright lad, and the son of the rich man of a very poor neighborhood. At the age of nineteen he unaccountably became furiously mad, from which condition he gradually settled down into harmless insanity. When, as I told you in my other letter, I visited my old home in the fall of 1844, I found him still lingering in this wretched condition. In my poetizing mood, I could not forget the impression his case made upon me.