No wonder the men of the cross and the missal
Once named it “The Lake of the Sacrament” pure,
Or that far leagues away, from some holiest vessel,
Its drops on the forehead could comfort and cure.
On the fair silver lake drives the Indian no longer,
With the sweep of his paddle, the birchen canoe;
And the fortresses fall that made weakness the stronger,
And saved the white maid when the war-whistle blew.
But ’tis well that the old and the savage are fated,
And that danger rolls back from the Edens of earth;