They covered with dry leaves the cold corpse and fair, And bore the long tresses of soft, golden hair, In silence and fear, through the dense forest wide, To the home that the lover had made for his bride. He knew by their waving those tresses of gold, Now damp with the life-blood that darkened each fold, And, mounting his steed, pausing never for breath Sought the spot where the huge trees stood sentries of Death; Tore wildly the leaves from the loved form away, And kissed the pale lips of inanimate clay. But hark! through the green wood what sounded afar, 'T was the trumpet's loud peal--the alarum of war! Again on his charger, through forest, o'er plain, The soldier rode swift to his ranks 'mid the slain: They faltered, they wavered, half turning to fly As their leader dashed frantic and fearlessly by, The damp turf grew crimson wherever he trod, Where his sword was uplifted a soul went to God. But that brave arm alone might not conquer in strife, The madness of grief was conflicting with Life; His steed fell beneath him, the death-shot whizzed by, And he rushed on the swords of the victors to die. 'Neath the murmuring pine trees they laid side by side, The gallant young soldier, the fair, murdered bride: And never again from that traitorous night, The red man dared stand in the battle's fierce storm, For ever before him a phantom of light, Rose up in the white maiden's beautiful form; And when he would rush on the foe from his lair, Those locks of pale gold floated past on the air. THE LAUGHING WATER. The Indian name for the Falls of St. Anthony signifies "Laughing Water," and here tradition says that a young woman of the Dahcotah tribe, the father of her children having taken another wife, unmoored her canoe above the fall, and placing herself and children in it, sang her death-song as she went over the foaming declivity. 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.