* * * *

Since this took place it is not known
How many changing moons have flown;
Yet still, when Luna's rapiers bright
Pierce through the tenuous robe of Night,
And shining on the stilly shore
Create again that scene of yore,
Wenonah and her lover true
Pass over in their white canoe;
Their spirit forms unshadowed glide
Across the rapid, glistening tide.

[Illustration]

Anpetusapa.

A LEGEND OF ST. ANTHONY FALLS.

'Tis autumn, and the breezes lift
Their melancholy tones;
'Tis evening: through each passing rift
The stars, like precious stones
In lustrous beauty (clouded soon),
Sweet incense to the sight,
Attend their white-robed mistress moon,
Queen of romantic night.
Anon, as the cloud hosts fly
Before the wind across the sky,
The court of the queen is suddenly seen,
With its pomp sublime and array
Of sparkling and glittering sheen,
More lovely than the light of day,
More glorious than the twilight gleam
That mingles with the sun's last beam
Where the waves of ocean play.

By the river's bank a wandering band
Have reared their teepee walls,
Here where the warriors all may stand
And view the mighty falls.
The ivory moon is mounting high,
The lodge fires flicker low,
And slumbering forms are visible by
The embers' last faint glow,
When lightly steps a youthful brave
Out from the forest ways
Into the star-roofed nave,
Out from the shadowing trees
(Leaves fluttering slow in the slow night breeze)
Into the broad, revealing rays,
Into the silvery glow.
With step as buoyant as the air
He glides above the glistening sward;
The largest, whitest teepee there
Doth seem to center his regard,
For there his unmarked path doth end,
And there his burning glances send
Their passionate lightnings, wild, yet all
Made reverent by the spot on which they fall.
This lodge doth tower
Above the poles on every hand
Like some strange chieftain o'er his band.
Why comes he at this hour?
Hath dark revenge a purpose here?
Shall bloody strife appear
On such a scene? Ah, no! the power
That spurs him hath a softer spell;
For here the tribe's most cherished flower,
The daughter of the chief, doth dwell.

His deep, rich voice floats down the glade,
In soft, unwonted tones
Like gentle winds through pine-tree cones;
He sings the Warrior's Serenade;
While at the end of every strain--
With more effect his cause to plead--
He plays a wild and shrill refrain
Upon a flute of rude-cut reed