Night was abroad on the earth;
Mists were over the face of the moon,
And the stars were like the sparkling flies
That twinkle in the prairie glades,
In my brother's month of June:
And hideous forms had risen;
The spirits of the swamp
Had come from their caverns dark and deep,
Where the slimy currents flow,
With the serpent and wolf to romp,
And to whisper in the sleeper's ear
Of death and danger near.

Then to the margin of the lake
A beauteous maiden came;
Tall she was as a youthful fir,
Upon the river's bank;
Her step was the step of the antelope;
Her eye was the eye of the doe;
Her hair was black as a coal-black horse;
Her hand was plump and small;
Her foot was slender and small;
And her voice was the voice of a rill in the moon,
Of the rill's most gentle song.
Beautiful lips had she,
Ripe red lips,
Lips like the flower that the honey-bee sips,
When its head is bow'd by dew.

She stood beneath the shade
Of the dark and lofty trees,
That threw their image on the lake,
And waited long in silence there.
"Why comes he not, my Annawan,
My lover, brave and true?
He knows his maiden waits for him
Beneath the shade of the yew,
To paddle the lake in her White Canoe."
But Annawan came not:
"He has miss'd me sure," the maiden said,
"And skims the lake alone;
Dark though it be, and the winds are high,
I'll seek my warrior there."
Then lightly to her white canoe
The fair Pequida sprung,
And is gone from the shore alone.

Loud blew the mighty winds,
The clouds were dense and black,
Thunders rolled among the hills,
Lightnings flash'd through the shades;
The spirits cried aloud
Their melancholy cries,
Cries which assail the listening ear
When danger and death are near:
Who is he that stands on the shore,
Uttering sounds of grief?
'Tis Annawan, the favour'd youth,
Detain'd so long lest envious eyes
Should know wherefore at midnight hour
He seeks the lake alone.
He finds the maiden gone,
And anguish fills his soul,
And yet, perchance in childish sport,
She hides among the groves.
Loudly he calls, "My maiden fair,
Thy Annawan is here!
Where art thou, maid with the coal-black hair?
What does thy bosom fear?
If thou hast hid in playful mood