For strife against the ocean tribe
The Mohawks' war array
Comes floating down, where broad St. John
Reflects the dawning day.
A camp is seen, and victims fall,
And none are left to flee;
A maid alone is spared, compelled
A traitress guide to be.
The swift canoes together keep,
And o'er their gliding prows
The silent girl points down the stream,
Nor halt nor rest allows.
"Speak! are we near your fires? How dark
Night o'er these waters lies!"
Still pointing down the rushing stream,
The maiden naught replies.
The banks fly past, the water seethes;
The Mohawks shout, "To shore!
Where is the girl?" Her cry ascends
From out the river's roar.
The foaming rapids rise and flash
A moment o'er her head,
And smiling as she sinks, she knows
Her foemen's course is sped;
A moment hears she shriek on shriek
From hearts that death appals,
As, seized by whirling gulfs, the crews
Are drawn into the falls!