CONTENTS
OF
THE THIRD VOLUME.
TALES OF AN INDIAN CAMP.
THE LAKE OF THE WHITE CANOE.
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!
My brother hears—'t is well—
And let him shun the spot,
The damp and dismal brake,
That skirts the shallow lake,
The brown and stagnant pool[1],
The dark and miry fen,
And let him never at nightfall spread
His blanket among the isles that dot
The surface of that lake;
And let my brother tell
The men of his race that the wolf hath fed
Ere now on warriors brave and true,
In the fearful Lake of the White Canoe.
Wo! Wo! Wo!
To him that sleeps in those dark fens!
The she-wolf will stir the brake,
And the copper-snake breathe in his ear,
And the bitterns will start by tens,
And the slender junipers shake
With the weight of the nimble bear,
And the pool resound with the cayman's plash,
And the owl will hoot in the boughs of the ash,
Where he sits so calm and cool;
Above his head, the muckawiss[2]
Will sing his gloomy song;
Frogs will scold in the pool,
To see the musk-rat carry along
The perch to his hairy brood;
And, coil'd at his feet, the horn-snake will hiss,
Nor last nor least of the throng,
The shades of the youth and maid so true,
That haunt the Lake of the White Canoe.