Where the war-whoop rose, and after women wailed their warriors slain,
List the Saxon’s silvery laughter, and his humming hives of gain. 
Swiftly sped the tawny runner o’er the pathless prairies then,
Now the iron-reindeer sooner carries weal or woe to men. 
On thy bosom, Royal River, silent sped the birch canoe
Bearing brave with bow and quiver on his way to war or woo;
Now with flaunting flags and streamers—­mighty monsters of the deep—­
Lo the puffing, panting steamers through thy foaming waters sweep;
And behold the grain-fields golden, where the bison grazed of eld;
See the fanes of forests olden by the ruthless Saxon felled. 
Plumed pines that spread their shadows ere Columbus spread his sails,
Firs that fringed the mossy meadows ere the Mayflower braved the gales,
Iron oaks that nourished bruin while the Vikings roamed the main,
Crashing fall in broken ruin for the greedy marts of gain.

Still forever and forever rolls the restless river on,
Slumbering oft but ceasing never while the circling centuries run. 
In his palm the lakelet lingers, in his hair the brooklets hide,
Grasped within his thousand fingers lies a continent fair and wide—­
Yea, a mighty empire swarming with its millions like the bees,
Delving, drudging, striving, storming, all their lives, for golden ease.

Still, methinks, the dusky shadows of the days that are no more,
Stalk around the lakes and meadows, haunting oft the wonted shore: 
Hunters from the land of spirits seek the bison and the deer
Where the Saxon now inherits golden field and silver mere;
And beside the mound where buried lies the dark-eyed maid he loves,
Some tall warrior, wan and wearied, in the misty moonlight moves. 
See—­he stands erect and lingers—­stoic still, but loth to go—­
Clutching in his tawny fingers feathered shaft and polished bow. 
Never wail or moan he utters and no tear is on his face,
But a warrior’s curse he mutters on the crafty Saxon race.

O thou dark, mysterious River, speak and tell thy tales to me;
Seal not up thy lips forever—­veiled in mist and mystery. 
I will sit and lowly listen at the phantom-haunted falls
Where thy waters foam and glisten o’er the rugged, rocky walls,
Till some spirit of the olden, mystic, weird, romantic days
Shall emerge and pour her golden tales and legends through my lays.

Then again the elk and bison on thy grassy banks shall feed,
And along the low horizon shall the plumed hunter speed;
Then again on lake and river shall the silent birch canoe
Bear the brave with bow and quiver on his way to war or woo: 
Then the beaver on the meadow shall rebuild his broken wall,
And the wolf shall chase his shadow and his mate the panther call. 
From the prairies and the regions where the pine-plumed forest grows
Shall arise the tawny legions with their lances and