Of all the sons of Tarke[3] none In battle braver deeds had done, Or mightier in the council sat Where chieftains joined the deep debate, Than proud Peechiki. He had trod With Pontiac on the path of blood; With Pontiac had at every chance Still struggled for the love of France; With Pontiac in the battle’s crash Hewed down the hated Sagaunash;[4] And when his last the Ottowa breathed, To stern Peechiki was bequeathed A hidden hatred—such as burns Where Ætna’s heart to ashes turns. But suddenly a terror came, A swift disease of fearful name. All whom he loved, or could have wept, One hour beheld to darkness swept— All but his youngest, fairest child, On which the mother dying smiled, Sweet Wintemoyeh, sweetest flower, Lone lingerer in his rifled bower, The loveliest far of Tarke’s daughters Beside St. Mary’s rushing waters. And now beyond their empty home No more the mourning sire would roam, But all his moody hours employ In hovering near his only joy. So sweet to gaze upon her face, Why should his foot the wild deer trace? So light her step green leaves among, Why should he seek the warrior throng? Or where could tones so soft and clear Make music to his aged ear? Oh! thus to love can only be Refined, absorbing misery! But cloudy years were gathering fast, And ere they should their shadows cast Upon his grave, the sole, fair flower He would might grace some chieftain’s bower. And when, to woo her for his bride, The Children-of-the-Reindeer’s pride, Great Assiboin, his love gifts bore: From far Superior’s farthest shore, The father gave her youthful age, With joy, to be his heritage. For who like him could hunt the roe? Who track so fast a flying foe? Whose feet by lake and lonely glen So oft had led his dauntless men From Mississippi’s haunted cave To Saskatchawan’s gloomy wave? Beloved by one so brave as he How happy would her portion be! In truth, he was a warrior bold, But wedded, ugly, fierce and old, To maiden’s heart a terror, were No brighter image worshiped there: And ah! the maid had chanced to see A face that lived in memory! The wild flowers of the early spring Her gentle hands were gathering, When lo! before her gazing stood A pale-face in the leafy wood. And as she looked upon him there, So young, so proud, so nobly fair, A thrill of strange emotion stole In tremblings through her timid soul.