Swift came the hour that maid and boy must part;
A glow unwonted, tinged with dusky red
Winona’s conscious face as home she sped;
And to the song exultant in her heart,
Beat her light moccasins with rhythmic tread.
But at the summit of a little hill,
Along whose base the village lay outspread,
A sudden sense of some impending ill
Smote the sweet fever in her veins with chill.
The lake she skirted, on whose mailèd breast