[BB]
Still onward they speed to the Dalles--
to the roar of the white-rolling rapids,
Where the dark river tumbles and falls
down the ragged ravine of the mountains.
And singing his wild jubilee
to the low-moaning pines and the cedars,
Rushes on to the unsalted sea
o'er the ledges upheaved by volcanoes.
Their luggage the _voyageurs_ bore
down the long, winding path of the portage,[BC]
While they mingled their song with the roar
of the turbid and turbulent waters.
Down-wimpling and murmuring there
'twixt two dewy hills winds a streamlet,
Like a long, flaxen ringlet of hair
on the breast of a maid in her slumber.
All safe at the foot of the trail,
where they left it, they found their felucca,
And soon to the wind spread the sail,
and glided at ease through the waters,--
Through the meadows and lakelets and forth,
round the point stretching south like a finger,
From the pine-plumed hills on the north,
sloping down to the bay and the lake-side
And behold, at the foot of the hill,
a cluster of Chippewa wigwams,
And the busy wives plying with skill
their nets in the emerald waters.
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