In vain shall we call on the souls before, gone They Mat wonck kunna-monee ! - O mighty Sowanna ! 26 Take home the poor Spirit whose journey is o'er, Mat wonck kunna-monee! - We see her no more! So sang the Children of the Leaves beside The broad, dark river's coldly-flowing tide, Now low, now harsh, with sob-like pause and swell, On the high wind their voices rose and fell. Nature's wild music, - sounds of windswept trees, The scream of birds, the wailing of the breeze, The roar of waters, steady, deep, and strong, Mingled and murmured in that farewell song. |