"In this dark hour of deep despair,
Of sorrow and distress,
Love yet may conquer when the hands
Of war hang weaponless.
"To-morrow when the sun is up,
When day has dawn'd again,
When night has lull'd the passions wild
Which war could not restrain,
"We'll get us to the white chief's tent;
My tears will move his heart;
O say not nay! one trial more,
And then we can depart."
The father gave his slow consent
Unto her earnest pray'r;
When woman prays, a savage e'en
Must yield to words so fair.
When scarce the morrow's sun had risen,
The chieftain and his child
Went down unto the white men's tents;
He sad, she hopeful, smiled.
They pass'd through crowds of gaping men,
Who glared upon their foe
With sullen brow or scornful eye,
And pitied not his woe.
They came before the white chiefs tent;
He met them at the door,
And gazed in wonder at the maid,
Such graceful form she bore.
