The Musing Maniac Poem by Charlotte Dacre

Say, where am I? Can you tell?
Is my heart within my breast?
Am I bound in magic spell,
Or by fiends of hell possest?

Say, what horror sways this brain?
Do I sleep, or do I wake?
If I sleep—oh, dream of pain!
From my lids thy fetters take.

If within the silent grave
Once I could but find my way,
Death might pity on me have;
Rattling with him let me play.

From the sockets of his eyes
Bid me the grim worm obtain;
Laughing then to see my prize,
Place it in its cave again.

Sometimes from my earthy bed
Bid me dance with spectres wan;
Why not gambol with the dead,
And be happy as we can?

Then, at midnight, from the tomb
Dimly steal, and silent stray,
Snatch a beam, to light the gloom,
From yonder moon now laughing gay.

Haunt the base with visions dire,
From their bosoms tear the heart,
Bid them in a dream expire,
Then awake to real smart.

Roaming thus where'er we list,
Dancing round and dancing round,
Sail upon the shadowy mist,
Or roll the stars upon the ground.

Thus to sport, and thus to play,
Never should I more know care;
I'll bribe the ghosts that guard the way,
And slily soon to death repair.