not up thy lips forever--veiled in mist and mystery. I will sit and lowly listen at the phantom-haunted falls, Where thy waters foam and glisten o'er the rugged, rocky walls. Till some spirit of the olden, mystic, weird, romantic days Shall emerge and pour her golden tales and legends through my lays. Then again the elk and bison on thy grassy banks shall feed, And along the low horizon shall the pluméd hunter speed; Then again on lake and river shall the silent birch canoe Bear the brave with bow and quiver on his way to war or woo: Then the beaver on the meadow shall rebuild his broken wall, And the wolf shall chase his shadow and his mate the panther call. From the prairies and the regions where the pine-plumed forest grows Shall arise the tawny legions with their lances and their bows; And again the shouts of battle shall resound along the plain, Bows shall twang and quivers rattle, women wail their warriors slain.
THE FEAST OF THE VIRGINS. 
A LEGEND OF THE DAKOTAS.
(In pronouncing Dakot
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