I fled into the wilderness, - a price was on my head, -
In kind Quinobequin I sank, by Indian bullet, dead.
"But when the sun sinks southward, and through every wood and grove
His own bright gold and scarlet sprinkles, - tokens of his love;
I wander o'er the river in my birchen bark canoe,
Revisiting my childhood's haunts, loved by me long ago.
"And when no lonely reach is left, between the wooded hills,
No tranquil waters undisturbed by lashing wheels of mills,
(For Quinobequin at many a mill doth, angry, rage and boil,
Nay, - rather Charles, - no Indian stream e'er stooped to white man's toil),
"When every sloping river-side doth bear a pale-face home,
When all the grand old forests fall where deer were wont to roam,
When noisy towns, with crashing looms, deface each sylvan shore, -
In my loved river's fountain, then, I'll sink to rise no more."
I woke, as from a dream, - my boat had passed the forest still;
Below, I heard the busy hum of many a rattling mill;
The setting suh, with slanting beams, tipped every rippling wave, -
But soft the river seemed to flow above the chieftain's grave.
F. J. S.