In vain shall we call on the souls before,

gone They

Mat wonck kunna-monee ! -
hear us no more!

O mighty Sowanna ! 26
Thy gateways unfold,
From thy wigwam of sunset
Lift curtains of gold!

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.