But ever she glanced before them

And glanced away to the darkness,

And or ever they heard it rightly, she raised her voice in a song:—

The wind from the Isles of the Blesséd, it blows across the foam.

It sings in the flowing maples of the land that was my home.

Where the moose is a morning’s hunt, and the buffalo feeds from the hand.—

And the river of mockery broadened,

Broadened and rolled to the darkness—

And the green maize lifts its feathers, and laughs the snow from the land.

The river broadened and quickened. There was nought but river and sky.

The shores were lost in the darkness. She laughed and lifted a cry:

41

41

Follow me! Sa-sa-kuon! Swifter and swifter they swirled—

And the flood of their doom went flying,

Flying away to the darkness,

Follow me, follow me, Mohawks, ye are shooting the edge of the world.

They struggled like snakes to return. Like straws they were whirled on her track.

For the whole flood swooped to that edge where the unplumbed night dropt black,

The whole flood dropt to a thunder in an unplumbed hell beneath,

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