Traditions of the North American Indians, Vol. 3

FRONTISPIECE. Vol. 3. Designed & Etched by W. H. Brooks A. R. H. A. In a moment multitudes of bright beings start up— He is ours !!! page 110. London, Published by Colburn & Bentley—April 1830.
BEING
A SECOND AND REVISED EDITION
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LONDON: F. SHOBERL, JUN., LONG ACRE.
Wo! Wo! Wo Wo to the sons of the far-off land, Weak in heart and pale in face, Deer in battle, moose in a race, Panthers wanting claw and tooth Wo to the red man, strong of hand, Steady of purpose, lithe of limb, Calm in the toils of the foe, Knowing nor tears nor ruth Wo to them and him, If, cast by hard fate at the midnight damp, Or an hour of storm in the dismal swamp, That skirts the Lake of the White Canoe!
Wo to him and them, If, when the night's dim lamps are veil'd, And the Hunter's Star is hid, And the moon has shut her lid, For their wearied limbs the only birth Be the cold and frosty earth, And their flesh be burnt by the gum exhal'd From the cedar's poisonous stem, And steep'd in the blistering dew Of the barren vine in the birchen copse, Where rear the pines their giant tops Above the Lake of the White Canoe!
And, if he chance to sleep, Still will his okki whisper wo, For hideous forms will rise: The spirits of the swamp Will come from their caverns dark and deep, Where the slimy currents flow, With the serpent and wolf to romp, And to whisper in the sleeper's ear Of wo and danger near; And mist will hide the pale, cold moon, And the stars will seem like the sparkling flies That twinkle in the prairie glades, In my brother's month of June— Murky shades, dim, dark shades, Shades of the cypress, pine, and yew, In the swamp of the Lake of the White Canoe.
Wo! wo! wo! He will hear in the dead of the night— If the bittern will stay his toot, And the serpent will cease his hiss, And the wolf forget his howl, And the owl forbear his hoot, And the plaintive muckawiss, And his neighbour the frog, will be mute— A plash like the dip of a water-fowl, In the lake with mist so white; And two forms will float on his troubled view, O'er the brake, with a meteor light, And he'll hear the words of a tender song, Stealing like a spring-wind along The Lake of the White Canoe.