Did the torrent sweep along,
Rolling centuries like pebbles in its sands,
And the prairies sprung and blossomed
And the bison herds grew strong,
And the red men camped and hunted through its lands.
Till there came at last a season
When a gaunt-limbed figure burst
Through the woods that lipped the current's whirling foam,
And the flint-lock that he shifted
As he stooped to quench his thirst