Poetry Archives

Now a light rustling wind from the South
          shakes his wings o’er the wide, wimpling waters:
Up the dark-winding river DuLuth
          follows fast in the wake of Tamdoka.
On the slopes of the emerald shores
          leafy woodlands and prairies alternate;
On the vine-tangled islands the flowers
          peep timidly out at the white men;
In the dark-winding eddy the loon
          sits warily watching and voiceless,
And the wild-goose, in reedy lagoon,
          stills the prattle and play of her children.
The does and their sleek, dappled fawns
          prick their ears and peer out from the thickets,
And the bison-calves play on the lawns,
          and gambol like colts in the clover.
Up the still-flowing Wakpa Wakan’s
          winding path through the groves and the meadows,
Now DuLuth’s brawny boatmen pursue
          the swift-gliding bark of Tamdoka;
And hardly the red braves out-do
          the stout, steady oars of the white men.

Now they bend to their oars in the race—
          the ten tawny braves of Tamdoka;
And hard on their heels in the chase
          ply the six stalwart oars of the Frenchmen.
In the stern of his boat sits DuLuth;
          in the stern of his boat sits Tamdoka,
And warily, cheerily, both urge
          the oars of their men to the utmost.
Far-stretching away to the eyes,
          winding blue in the midst of the meadows,
As a necklet of sapphires that lies
          unclaspt in the lap of a virgin,
Here asleep in the lap of the plain
          lies the reed-bordered, beautiful river.
Like two flying coursers that strain,
          on the track, neck and neck on the home-stretch,
With nostrils distended and mane froth-flecked,
          and the neck and the shoulders,
Each urged to his best by the cry
          and the whip and the rein of his rider,
Now they skim o’er the waters and fly,
          side by side, neck and neck, through the meadows,
The blue heron flaps from the reeds,
          and away wings her course up the river:
Straight and swift is her flight o’er the meads,
          but she hardly outstrips the canoemen.
See! the voyageurs bend to their oars
          till the blue veins swell out on their foreheads;
And the sweat from their brawny breasts pours;
          but in vain their Herculean labor;
For the oars of Tamdoka are ten,
          and but six are the oars of the Frenchman,
And the red warriors’ burden of men
          is matched by the voyageurs’ luggage.
Side by side, neck and neck, for a mile,
          still they strain their strong arms to the utmost,
Till rounding a willowy isle,
          now ahead creeps the boat of Tamdoka,
And the neighboring forests profound,
          and the far-stretching plain of the meadows
To the whoop of the victors resound,
          while the panting French rest on their paddles.