Or sweeps on wild destruction's wing.
That thought comes o'er me in the hour,
Of grief, of sickness, or of sadness;
'Tis not the dread of death,—'tis more,
It is the dread of madness.
Oh, may these throbbing pulses pause
Forgetful of their feverish course;
May this hot brain, which burning, glows,
With all a fiery whirlpool's force,
Be cold, and motionless, and still