‘ Tis midnight. The rising moon gleams, weird and still, o'er the dusky horizon; Through the hushed, somber forest she beams, and fitfully gloams on the meadows;
And a dim, glimmering pathway she paves, at times, on the dark stretch of river. The winds are asleep in the caves — in the heart of the far-away mountains;
And here on the meadows and there, the lazy mists gather and hover; And the lights of the Fen-Spiritsflare and dance on the low-lying marshes,
As still as the footsteps of death by the bed of the babe and its mother; And hushed are the pines, and beneath lie the weary-limbed boatmen in slumber.
Walk softly,— walk softly, O Moon, through the gray, broken clouds in thy pathway, For the earth lies asleep and the boon of repose is bestowed on the weary.
Toiling hands have forgotten their care; e'en the brooks have forgotten to murmur; But hark!— there's a sound on the air!— ‘ tis the light-rustling robes of the Spirits,
Like the breath of the night in the leaves or the murmur of reeds on the river, In the cool of the mid-summer eyes, when the blaze of the day has descended.
Low-crouching and shadowy forms, as still as the gray morning's footsteps, Creep sly as the serpent that charms, on her nest in the meadow, the plover;
In the shadows of pine-trunks they creep, but their panther-eyes gleam in the fire-light, As they peer on the white-men asleep, in the glow of the fire, on their blankets.
Lo in each swarthy right-hand a knife; in the left-hand, the bow and the arrows! Brave Frenchmen, awake to the strife!— or you sleep in the forest forever.
Nay, nearer and nearer they glide, like ghosts on the field of their battles, Till close on the sleepers, they bide but the signal of death from Tamdóka.
Still the sleepers sleep on. Not a breath stirs the leaves of the awe-stricken forest; The hushed air is heavy with death; like the footsteps of death are the moments.
“Arise!” — At the word, with a bound, to their feet spring the vigilant Frenchmen; And the depths of the forest resound to the crack and the roar of their rifles;
And seven writhing forms on the ground clutch the earth. From the pine-tops the screech-owl Screams and flaps his wide wings in affright, and plunges away through the shadows;
And swift on the wings of the night flee the dim, phantom-forms through the darkness. Like cabriswhen white wolves pursue, fled the four yet remaining Dakotas;
Through forest and fen-land they flew, and wild terror howled on their footsteps. And one was Tamdóka. DuLuth through the night sent his voice like a trumpet:
“Ye are Sons of Unktéhee, forsooth! Return to your mothers, ye cowards!” His shrill voice they heard as they fled, but only the echoes made answer.
At the feet of the brave Frenchmen, dead, lay seven swarthy Sons of whitehead; And there, in the midst of the slain, they found, as it gleamed in the fire-light,
The horn-handled knife from the Seine, where it fell from the hand of Tamdóka.
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