Where ghastly ledges gleam;
With muscles strained and backs well bowed,
And poles that breaking seem,
We shoot the Sault, whose torrent proud
Itself our lord did deem.
The broad traverse is cold and deep,
And treacherous smiles it hath,
And with its sickle of death doth reap
With woe for aftermath;
But though the wind-vexed waves may leap,