The Maniac Poem by Mary Anne Browne

I know, my love, thou art false to me ;
Yet I cannot love thee less :
And I know I have lost the little power
I once might have to bless.

I know to-morrow will see thee wed
To a young and beautiful bride; -
And I know thou wilt think no more of me,
Who was once thy joy and thy pride.

I am near the grove with grief and despair ;
And the merry marriage bell
That summons thy bride and thee to church,
Will be my funeral knell.

Thy bride is young - thy bride is fair -
May her virtues long fix thee !
And oh ! may'st thou never be false to her,
As thou hast been to me !

Yet think not, love, that at my death,
My spirit from thee will part ;-
I still will guard and watch over thee,
Tho' thou hast broken my heart.

When thou and thy fair bride shall gaze
On the rosy evening sky-
When the sun hath set in the western sea
Invisibly I will be nigh.

And when summer smiles, I will appear
Like a fair and beautiful rose ;
And thou, perchance, wilt admire me,
And say my blush brightly glows.

I will weep a drop of purest dew,
And breathe the most fragrant sigh
That ever flower on earth yet breathed,
When thou and thy bride come nigh.

I will whisper amidst the breezes of eve ; -
I will swell the nightingale's song ;
And my breath shall perfume the fair young flowers
And groves thou walkest among.

I will watch o'er thee when thou sleepest, love,-
I will float on the soft moon-beams -
To whisper music in thine ear,
And lull thee with heavenly dreams.

And when at last thou shalt die, my love,
A primrose I'll over thee bloom ;
And my soul shall dissolve in a dew-drop tear,
For a willow to weep o'er thy tomb.