THE LAUGHING WATER.

The sun went down the west

As a warrior to his grave,

And touched with crimson hue

The “Laughing Water's” wave;

And where the current swept

A quick, convulsive flood,

Serene upon the brink

An Indian mother stood.

With calm and serious gaze

She watched the torrent blue

And then with skilful hand

Unmoored the birch canoe,

Seized the light oar, and placed

Her infants by her side,

And steered the fragile bark

On through the rushing tide.

Then fitfully and wild

In thrilling notes of woe

Swept down the rapid stream

The death-song sad and low;

And gathered on the marge,

From many a forest glen,

With frantic gestures rude,

The red Dahcotah men.

But onward sped the bark

Until it reached the height,

Where mounts the angry spray

And raves the water's might

And whirling eddies swept

Into the gulf below

The smiles of infancy

And youth's maturer glow;

The priestess of the rock

And white-robed surges bore

The wronged and broken heart

To the far off Spirit Shore.

And often when the night

Has drawn her shadowy veil,

And solemn stars look forth

Serenely pure and pale,

A spectre bark and form

May still be seen to glide,

In wondrous silence down

The Laughing Water's tide.

And mingling with the breath

Of low winds sweeping free,

The night-bird's fitful plaint,

And moaning forest tree,

Amid the lulling chime

Of waters falling there,

The death-song floats again

Upon the laden air.