THE DYING INDIAN’S DREAM

Of bush and brake, 0f stream and lake, Of sunny pool and alder shade, Where the trout and the salmon played, Where the weeping willow wept, Where the whistling wood-cock kept, Where the mink and the martin crept, Where the wolf and the wild-cat stept, Where the bear and the beaver slept, Where the roaring torrent swept, Where the wandering woodman strayed, Where the hunter’s lodge was made, Where his weary form was laid; Where the fish and the game abound, Where the various kinds are found, Every month the Seasons round: Where beetling bluffs o’erhang the deep, Where laughing cascades foam and leap, Dancing away from steep to steep; Where the ash and the maple grew, Where the hawk and the eagle flew, Sailing in the azure blue.

With matchless skill, He could hunt and kill, The moose and the carriboo, And smoothly ride On the rolling tide, In the light and frail canoe; Though in angry gusts the tempests blew, Though the thunders roared, And the torrents poured, And the vivid lightnings flew; With a noble pride, Which fear defied, With steady hand and true The fragile skiE