DOWN THE QUINAULT RIVER 



High mountains, the stars, and wide ocean, 

 The forest, so silent, the stream, 

 Loud torrent from mountain lake tumbling 

 Through boulders for ever a-rumbling, 

 How troubled my spirit's vague dream: 

 Fain 1 prayer in the midst of commotion! 



I feel the lash 



Of rapid's dash, 



The thrill of lunge and glide; 



Though rude the shock 



Of hidden rock, 



There stands my Indian guide! 



Lo! Primitive man with full quiver 

 Launched forth in his mystic canoe. 

 All scornful of rock-scattered danger, 

 His soul to wild terror a stranger, 

 Bold magic of arrows' he knew 

 For demons who haunted the river. 



One glimpse of past, 



From secrets vast 



Yon ancient spruces hide: 



Old courage runs 



From sire to sons, 



To this, my Indian guide. 



No star in the heavens may reckon 

 True course for this frail little bark; 

 Each lurch with the torrent's new veering 

 Responds to the paddle swift steering 

 Past Death lurking low in the dark. 

 Some eagle this Indian doth beckon! 



heart aglow, 



Deep waters flow, 



My fear doth mingle pride; 



Behold the sea 



I'm safe with thee, 



My Quinault Indian guide! 



Edmond S. Meany. 



