A kindly heart had brave Fitz-James;
Fast pour’d his eyes at pity’s claims;
And now with mingled grief and ire,
He saw the murder’d maid expire.
“God, in my need, be my relief,
As I wreak this on yonder Chief!”
A lock from Blanche’s tresses fair
He blended with her bridegroom’s hair;
The mingled braid in blood he dyed,
And placed it on his bonnet-side: