From his far wigwam sprang the strong North Wind
And rush'd with war-cry down the steep ravines,
And wrestl'd with the giants of the woods;
And with his ice-club beat the swelling crests.
Of the deep watercourses into death,
And with his chill foot froze the whirling leaves
Of dun and gold and fire in icy banks;
And smote the tall reeds to the harden'd earth;
And sent his whistling arrows o'er the plains,
Scatt'ring the ling'ring herds--and sudden paus'd
When he had frozen all the running streams,
And hunted with his war-cry all the things
That breath'd about the woods, or roam'd the bleak
Bare prairies swelling to the mournful sky.
"White squaw," he shouted, troubl'd in his soul,
"I slew the dead, wrestl'd with naked chiefs
"Unplum'd before, scalped of their leafy plumes;
"I bound sick rivers in cold thongs of death,
"And shot my arrows over swooning plains,
"Bright with the Paint of death--and lean and bare.
"And all the braves of my loud tribe will mock
"And point at me--when our great chief, the Sun,
"Relights his Council fire in the moon
"Of Budding Leaves." "Ugh, ugh! he is a brave!
"He fights with squaws and takes the scalps of babes!
"And the least wind will blow his calumet--
"Fill'd with the breath of smallest flow'rs--across
"The warpaint on my face, and pointing with
"His small, bright pipe, that never moved a spear
"Of bearded rice, cry, 'Ugh! he slays the dead!'