THE GUIDE OF THE MOHAWKS.

For strife against the ocean tribe

The Mohawks’ war array

Comes floating down, where broad St. John

Reflects the dawning day.

A camp is seen, and victims fall,

And none are left to flee;

A maid alone is spared, compelled

A traitress guide to be.

The swift canoes together keep,

And o'er their gliding prows

The silent girl points down the stream,

Nor halt nor rest allows.

“Speak! are we near your fires? How dark

Night o'er these waters lies!”

Still pointing down the rushing stream,

The maiden naught replies.

The banks fly past, the water seethes;

The Mohawks shout, “To shore!

Where is the girl?” Her cry ascends

From out the river's roar.

The foaming rapids rise and flash

A moment o'er her head,

And smiling as she sinks, she knows

Her foemen's course is sped;

A moment hears she shriek on shriek

From hearts that death appals,

As, seized by whirling gulfs, the crews

Are drawn into the falls!