Forth from that shivered helm outstreamed afar
His locks dust-stained. Forth from those eyes there shone,
Baleful in death, hate's never-setting star:
He hoped no mercy, and he asked for none.
Then cried my heart, “A sister's hands have twined,
How oft! those locks; a mother's lips have pressed:
Perhaps this morn the cassia-shaking wind
Waved them, rich-scented, o'er his true love's breast.”
“Foe of my race,” I said, “arise; live free;
But lift no more against the Faith thy sword!”