It is told in Indian story, Dim tradition of the race, How, to God's eternal glory, And through His all-saving grace, Many a warrior's heart was stirred To belief in His ever-living Word, And the Faith that saves us all, By a Priest, whose holy mission Overcame their superstition About the Island, which divides Niagara's tumultuous tides, At the brink of the mighty Fall. 'Twas many a year ago, when o'er The land on Ni-a-gára's shore The Neuter tribe held sway. On its western bank, above, but near, Where rapids begin, in wild career Toward the Fall, and down as low As a bark canoe could safely go, One of their villages lay. In that village by the river, Late one eve, when bow and quiver Had …
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