Poems (White)/Dr. William C. Minor

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DR. WILLIAM C. MINOR

A pitiful case that must be;
My heart, it is bleeding within.
Those deep misty eyes I can see,
Great learning and lack of all sin;
These eyes full of knowledge of things,
Intelligent, yet, and without.
A shiver of sorrow it brings,
That such things should come round about.
Full forty years' lifetime he spent
With rude and with ignorant men,
When light of his reason all went—
He murdered. His punishment then—
To Broadmoor. A criminal grave.
This man went, of genius and pow'r,
To live out his life till its wave,
His room on the right third floor tow'r.

He gave to Sir Murray's great book
Eight thousand good verses to use,
For words that all people should look,
To use thus, and not to confuse.
Such learning, such wisdom, and yet
The lack of pure reason was there.
Queer phantasies that he could get
Not over, his mind has to share.
His sin? Do you say that he killed?
No, no, yes, a thousand times no.
The sin of so many, that lay
​To war, and its terrible woe.
His sin? That his great reason fell
To pain, its loud cry, when he bored
The hot branding iron, to tell
The victims all wars can afford.
His sin? 'Tis the nation's to take
A sensitive soul such as this,
To press into service, and make
A butcher; a god-like man miss;
A man of such power and great range
Be turned into such an account,
Because we in ignorance arrange
The goats with the sheep in amount;
That wisdom we lack, to engage
Great souls for mean tasks thus to do;
To force into service a sage.
The outcome was sure, as it grew.
His cloud of great sorrow will lift
Not far from his wonderful brain,
This Evil One that will not shift,
Give way to his reason again.
Just so, can we not understand?
Men are not all made just alike.
To one, 'tis pure joy, master hand—
Another, hell torture,—the like.