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Like an untarnished
Buckler of silver,
Dropped in that valley
By the Great Spirit!
Weird are the figures
Traced on its margins
Vine-work and leaf-work,
Knots of sword-grasses,
Moonlight and starlight,
Clouds scudding northward!
Sometimes an eagle
Flutters across it;
Sometimes a single

Star on its bosom
Nestles till morning.

Far in the ages,
Miantowona,

Rose of the Hurons,

Came to these waters.

Where the dank greensward

Slopes to the pebbles,
Miantowona

Sat in her anguish.

Ice to her maidens,
Ice to the chieftains,

Fire to her lover!

Here he had won her,

Here they had parted,

Here could her tears flow.

With unwet eyelash,

Miantowona

Nursed her old father,

Oldest of Hurons,

Soothed his complainings,
Smiled when he chid her
Vaguely for nothing-
He was so weak now,
Like a shrunk cedar
White with the hoar-frost.
Sometimes she gently

Linked arms with maidens,

Joined in their dances;

Not with her people,
Not in the wigwam,
Wept for her lover.

Ah! who was like him?

Fleet as an arrow,

Strong as a bison,
Lithe as a panther,
Soft as the south-wind,
Who was like Wawah?
There is one other
Stronger and fleeter,

Bearing no wampum,
Wearing no war-paint,
Ruler of councils,

Chief of the war-path

Who can gainsay him,
Who can defy him?
His is the lightning,
His is the whirlwind.

Let us be humble,
We are but ashes -

"T is the Great Spirit!

Ever at nightfall
Miantowona

Strayed from the lodges, Passed through the shadows

Into the forest;

There by the pond-side
Spread her black tresses
Over her forehead.
Sad is the loon's cry
Heard in the twilight;
Sad is the night-wind,
Moaning and moaning;
Sadder the stifled
Sob of a widow!

Low on the pebbles
Murmured the water:
Often she fancied
It was young Wawah
Playing the reed-flute.
Sometimes a dry branch
Snapped in the forest:
Then she rose, startled,
Ruddy as sunrise,

Warm for his coming!

But when he came not, Back through the darkness, Half broken-hearted,

Miantowona

Went to her people.

When an old oak dies,

First 't is the tree-tops,

Then the low branches,

Then the gaunt stem goes,
So fell Tawanda,

Oldest of Hurons,

Chief of the chieftains.

Miantowona

Wept not, but softly

Closed the sad eyelids;
With her own fingers
Fastened the deer-skin
Over his shoulders;
Then laid beside him
Ash-bow and arrows,
Pipe-bowl and wampum,
Dried corn and bear-meat
All that was needful
On the long journey.

Thus old Tawanda
Went to the hunting

Grounds of the Red Man.

Then, as the dirges

Rose from the village,

Miantowona

Stole from the mourners,

Stole through the cornfields,

Passed like a phantom

Into the shadows

Through the pine-forest.

One who had watched her

It was Nahoho,

Loving her vainly

Saw, as she passed him,

That in her features

Made his stout heart quail.

He could but follow.

Quick were her footsteps,
Light as a snow-flake,

Leaving no traces

On the white clover.

Like a trained runner,
Winner of prizes,

Into the woodlands
Plunged the young chieftain.
Once he abruptly
Halted, and listened;

Then he sped forward
Faster and faster

Toward the bright water.
Breathless he reached it.
Why did he crouch then,
Stark as a statue?

What did he see there

Could so appall him?
Only a circle

Swiftly expanding,

Fading before him;

But, as he watched it,
Up from the centre,
Slowly, superbly

Rose a Pond-Lily.

One cry of wonder,

Shrill as the loon's call,
Rang through the forest,
Startling the silence,
Startling the mourners
Chanting the death-song.
Forth from the village,
Flocking together

Came all the Hurons

Striplings and warriors,
Maidens and old men,
Squaws with papooses.
No word was spoken:

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