In its way, while it lashed with its tail at the shore;
Over country and highway, apast them it tore
With a swirl and a whirl as the high waves would break
To dash on the island a yellowish flake.
Since the Red Men had named it “the beautiful river,”
No flood-tide was like it, nor yet was there ever
Such woe on the fair verdant banks at its shore,
As higher and onward the great torrent bore,
As downward and forward the avalanche tore.
’Twas as wide as the valley from hill unto hill,