And cheers the hearts of his falling braves.
But a panther crouches along his track,--
He springs with a yell on Wakawa's back!

The tall Chief, stabbed to the heart, lies low;
But his left hand clutches his deadly foe,
And his red right clenches the bloody hilt
Of his knife in the heart of the slayer dyed.
And thus was the life of Wakawa spilt,
And slain and slayer lay side by side.
The unscalped corpse of their honored chief
His warriors snatched from the yelling pack,
And homeward fled on their forest track
With their bloody burden and load of grief.

The spirits the words of the brave fulfill,--
Wakawa sleeps on the sacred hill,
And Wakinyan Tanka, his son, is chief.
Ah, soon shall the lips of men forget
Wakawa's name, and the mound of stone
Will speak of the dead to the winds alone,
And the winds will whistle their mock-regret.

The speckled cones of the scarlet berries [58]
Lie red and ripe in the prairie grass.
The Si-yo [59] clucks on the emerald prairies
To her infant brood. From the wild morass,
On the sapphire lakelet set within it,
Maga [60] sails forth with her wee ones daily.
They ride on the dimpling waters gaily,