Where the snow-world of the mountains Fronts the sea-like world of sward, And encamped along the prairies Tower the white peaks heavenward; Where they stand by dawn rose-coloured Or dim-silvered by the stars, And behind their shadowed portals Evening draws her lurid bars, Lies a country whose sweet grasses Richly clothe the rolling plain; All its swelling upland pastures Speak of Plenty's happy reign; There the bison herds in autumn Roamed wide sunlit solitudes, Seamed with many an azure river Bright in burnished poplar woods.

Night-dews pearled the painted hide-tents, "Moyas" named, that on the mead Sheltered dark-eyed women wearing Braided hair and woven bead. Never man had seen their lodges, Never warrior crossed the slopes Where they rode, and where they hunted Imu bulls and antelopes. Masterless, how swift their riding! While the wild steeds onward flew, From round breasts and arms unburdened Freedom's winds their tresses blew. Only when the purple shadows Slowly veiled the darkening plain Would they sorrow that the Sun-god Dearer loved his Alp's domain.

Southward, nearer to the gorges Whence the sudden warm winds blow, Shaking all the pine's huge branches, Melting all the fallen snow, Dwelt the Séksika, the Blackfeet; They whose ancestor, endued, With the dark salve's magic fleetness, First on foot the deer pursued. Gallantly the Braves bore torture While their Sun-dance fasts were held, While the drums beat, and the virgins Saw the pains by manhood quelled. As each writhing form triumphant Called on the Great Spirit's might, On his son, whose voice in thunder Summons airy hosts to fight.