For his waving locks were tempests,
And the thunder-cloud his frown;
Where he trod the earthquake followed,
And the forests bowed them down.
As his whirlwind struck the mountains,
Rent and lifted, swayed the ground;
Winged knives of crooked lightning
Gleamed from skies and gulfs profound.
Floods, from wonted channels driven,
Roared at falling hillside's shock;
What was land became the torrent,
What was lake became the rock.
Now the river and the ocean,
Whispering, say: "Our floods alone
See white skeletons slow-moving
Near the olden walls of stone."
Moving slow in stream and sea-tide,
There the stranger warriors sleep,
And their shades still cry in anguish
Where the foaming waters leap.
THE GUIDE OF THE MOHAWKS.
For strife against the ocean tribe
The Mohawks' war array
Comes floating down, where broad St. John
Reflects the dawning day.
A camp is seen, and victims fall,
And none are left to flee;
A maid alone is spared, compelled
A traitress guide to be.
The swift canoes together keep,
And o'er their gliding prows
The silent girl points down the stream,
Nor halt nor rest allows.
"Speak! are we near your fires? How dark
Night o'er these waters lies!"
Still pointing down the rushing stream,
The maiden naught replies.
The banks fly past, the water seethes;
The Mohawks shout, "To shore!
Where is the girl?" Her cry ascends
From out the river's roar.