With idiot eye and childish stare,
Poor Mena bends before him there,
His bloody, wasted hand she takes;
The flower her sad remembrance wakes.
Her brain is fir’d; in vain she tries
To shed a tear!—so soon, alas!
The secret springs of feeling fail,
When wrongs the anguish’d heart assail,
And burning sorrows o’er it pass.