Or danced his war-dance to the music of thy roar—
Now on thy surface no canoe is seen,
For ’mid the wild-flowers which anigh thee bloom,
Sleeps the bold Indian, death-cold in his tomb;
Remembered as the things that once had been,
While wild-birds o’er him do his requiem sing,
Or flying o’er thee dip their sparkling wing.
EMMA LA VELLETTE.
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