As her black tresses to the night-wind flew,
Something o’ermaster’d them from that young mien—
Something of heaven in silence felt and seen;
And seeming, to their childlike faith, a token
That the Great Spirit by her voice had spoken.
They loosed the bonds that held their captive’s breath;
From his pale lips they took the cup of death;
They quench’d the brand beneath the cypress tree:
“Away,” they cried, “young stranger, thou art free!”