With the souls of our people, moving slow;
For the beams of her spirit 'mid those we see,
For we know in glory she brightest will be,
Away! away!
She will come no more when the morn is fair,
To look in the wave while she braids her hair;
But her face like a star on Auketauquil's soul,
Dawns bright from the gloom where its deep waters roll,
Away! away!
Soar on—soar away to the spirit-land,