With fettered hands and ringlets shorn,
Poor Alice Hill, a maniac, borne
On to the mad-house's gloomy walls,
For ever on Fitch Moreland calls,—
"I am not mad! Unloose these bands!
See here my tortured, bleeding hands!
On Moreland's ring a crimson stain:
It shall not plead my wrongs in vain;
For in my heart revenge lies deep—
Its glassy eyes shall never sleep,