The shadowed stream rolled far below, Where men moved noiseless to and fro As in some vast cathedral, when The calm of prayer comes to men, With benedictions, bending low. Lo! wooded sea-banks, wild and steep! A trackless wood; a snowy cone That lifted from this wood alone! This wild wide river, dark and deep! A ship against the shore asleep! VII. An Indian woman crept, a crone, Hard by about the land alone, The relic of her perished race. She wore rich, rudely-fashioned bands Of gold above her bony hands: She hissed hot curses on the place! VIII. Go seek the red man's last retreat! A lonesome land, the haunted lands! Red mouths of beasts, red men's red hands: Red prophet-priest, in mute defeat! His boundaries in blood are writ! His land is ghostland! That is his, Whatever man may claim of this; Beware how you shall enter it! He stands God's guardian of ghostlands; Ay, this same wrapped half-prophet stands All nude and voiceless, nearer to The awful God than I or you. IX. This bronzed child, by that river's brink, Stood fair to see as you can think, As tall as tall reeds at her feet, As fresh as flowers in her hair; As sweet as flowers over-sweet, As fair as vision more than fair! How beautiful she was! How wild! How pure as water-plant, this child,-- This one wild child of Nature here Grown tall in shadows. And how near To God, where no man stood between Her eyes and scenes no man hath seen,-- This maiden that so mutely stood, The one lone woman of that wood. Stop still, my friend, and do not stir, Shut close your page and think of her. The birds sang sweeter for her face; Her lifted eyes were like a grace To seamen of that solitude, However rough, however rude. The rippled rivers of her hair, That ran in wondrous waves, somehow Flowed down divided by her brow,-- Half mantled her within its care, And flooded all, or bronze or snow, In its uncommon fold and flow. A perfume and an incense lay Before her, as an incense sweet Before blithe mowers of sweet May In early morn. Her certain feet Embarked on no uncertain way. Come, think how perfect before men, How sweet as sweet magnolia bloom Embalmed in dews of morning, when Rich sunlight leaps from midnight gloom Resolved to kiss, and swift to kiss Ere yet morn wakens man to bliss. X. The days swept on. Her perfect year Was with her now. The sweet perfume Of womanhood in holy bloom, As when red harvest blooms appear, Possessed her now. The priest did pray That saints alone should pass that way. A red bird built beneath her roof, Brown squirrels crossed her cabin sill, And welcome came or went at will. A hermit spider wove his web, And up against the roof would spin His net to catch mosquitoes in.