Darkness into lurid day.

But the stranger hearts were hardened,
Fearless slept they; then at last
Our Great Spirit heard, and answered
From his home in heaven vast.

For his waving locks were tempests,
And the thunder-cloud his frown;
Where he trod the earthquake followed,
And the forests bowed them down.

As his whirlwind struck the mountains,
Rent and lifted, swayed the ground;
Winged knives of crooked lightning
Gleamed from skies and gulfs profound.

Floods, from wonted channels driven,
Roared at falling hillside's shock;
What was land became the torrent,
What was lake became the rock.

Now the river and the ocean,
Whispering, say: "Our floods alone
See white skeletons slow-moving
Near the olden walls of stone."

Moving slow in stream and sea-tide,
There the stranger warriors sleep,
And their shades still cry in anguish