Soiled and stained with streaks of crimson,
As if blood were mingled with it!
From the river came the warriors, 145
Clean and washed from all their war-paint;
On the banks their clubs they buried,
Buried all their warlike weapons.
Gitche Manitou, the mighty,
The Great Spirit, the creator, 150
Smiled upon his helpless children!
And in silence all the warriors