Down a broad river of the western wilds,

Piercing thick forest-glooms, a light canoe

Swept with the current: fearful was the speed

Of the frail bark, as by a tempest’s wing

Borne leaf-like on to where the mist of spray

Rose with the cataract’s thunder. Yet within,

Proudly, and dauntlessly, and all alone,

Save that a babe lay sleeping at her breast,

A woman stood! Upon her Indian brow

Sat a strange gladness, and her dark hair waved [10]

As if triumphantly. She pressed her child,

In its bright slumber, to her beating heart,

And lifted her sweet voice, that rose awhile

Above the sound of waters, high and clear,

Wafting a wild proud strain – a song of death.

‘Roll swiftly to the spirits’ land, thou mighty stream and free!

Father of ancient waters, roll! and bear our lives with thee!

The weary bird that storms have tossed would seek the sunshine’s calm,

And the deer that hath the arrow’s hurt flies to the woods of balm.

‘Roll on! – my warrior’s eye hath looked upon another’s face, [20]

And mine hath faded from his soul, as fades a moonbeam’s trace:

My shadow comes not o’er his path, my whisper to his dream –

He flings away the broken reed. Roll swifter yet, thou stream!

‘The voice that spoke of other days is hushed within his breast,

But mine its lonely music haunts, and will not let me rest;

It sings a low and mournful song of gladness that is gone –

I cannot live without that light. Father of waves! roll on!