and headlong plunged into the waters.
Forever she sank mid the wail,
and the wild lamentation of women.
Her lone spirit evermore dwells
in the depths of the Lake of the Mountains,
And the lofty cliff evermore tells
to the years as they pass her sad story.[BW]

In the silence of sorrow the night
o'er the earth spread her wide, sable pinions;
And the stars[18] hid their faces; and light
on the lake fell the tears of the spirits.
As her sad sisters watched on the shore
for her spirit to rise from the waters,
They heard the swift dip of an oar,
and a boat they beheld like a shadow,
Gliding down through the night in the gray,
gloaming mists on the face of the waters.
'Twas the bark of DuLuth on his way
from the Falls to the Games at _Keoza_.

[BW] The Dakotas say that the spirit of Winona forever haunts the lake.
They say that it was many, many winters ago when Winona leaped from the
rock,--that the rock was then perpendicular to the water's edge and she
leaped into the lake, but now the rock has partly crumbled down and the
waters have also receded, so that they do not now reach, the foot of the
perpendicular rock as of old.

SPRING

_Et nunc omnis ager, mine omms parturit arbos;
Nunc frondent sylvae, nunc formostssimus annus.
--Virgil._

Delightful harbinger of joys to come,
Of summer's verdure and a fruitful year,
Who bids thee o'er our northern snow-fields roam,
And make all gladness in thy bright career?
Lo from the Indian Isle thou dost appear,
And dost a thousand pleasures with thee bring:
But why to us art thou so ever dear?
Bearest thou the hope--upon thy radiant wing--
Of Immortality, O soft, celestial Spring?

Yea, buds and flowers that fade not, they are thine,
And youth-renewing balms; the sear and old
Are young and gladsome at thy touch divine.
Thou breath'st upon the frozen earth--behold,
Meadows and vales of grass and floral gold,
Green-covered hills and leafy mountains grand:
Young life leaps up where all was dumb and cold,
As smoldering embers into flame are fanned,
Or the dead came back to life at the touch of the Savior's hand.

The snow-clouds fly the canopy of heaven;
The rivulets ripple with the merry tone
Of wanton waters, and the breezes given
To fan the budding hills are all thine own.
Returning songsters from the tropic zone
Their vernal love-songs in the tre