Standing there on her
lookout throne above the springs and praying to
the Great Spirit Waconda for the healing of her old blind father, chief
of the Tzisho clan (Osage), Arrow Makers.
O, the spring of the Mintahama
In the mountains of the north
In a vale of Bella Vista,
"Giving gladly" from her mouth
Laughter like the song of angels
In a sweet and soft refrain
From a lower Court of Heaven,
Like the music of the rain.
See the jewels from her casket
Near her heart within the earth,
Takes them in her mossy blanket,
Scatters them of rarest worth
Through the groves in rich profusion
Where the wood nymphs love to meet
And to dance without intrusion
From the city's sordid street
Spirit of the Indian Maiden
Sitting on her onyx throne
In her lovely mountain Eden
In the Ozarks all alone
Wreathed with flowers, and vines, and bramble
With a crown of virgin gold,
"Giving Gladly" while men scramble
For her waters as of old.
Drinking nectar from her fountain
"Giving gladly" from her hand
From her storehouse in the mountain
In some icy cavern grand
Where the rumble of the thunder
Echoes through her vaulted dome
From some far-off region under=
Neath her sylvan palace home.
See the minnows of the streamlet
Sporting in her verdant grove
In a little silver breamlet;
Playing bo-peep with her glove
In the ripples of the water,
Or beneath some graceful fern,
Where perhaps a weary otter
Sleeps in silence in the burn.
How we love the liquid chorus
Of her sparkling babbling brook
While the echo settles o'er us
And we write it in a book.
"Mintahama, Indian Maiden"
In the throne room of her heart,
in her mystic mosque of Eden
Where we worship, and depart.