They never met again. The war-party, which he led, were conducted by him to victory. After having distinguished himself by most heroic bravery, he received an arrow in his breast, just as the enemy had fled, with the loss of many of their best warriors. On examining his wound, it was perceived to be beyond the power of cure. He languished a short time, and expired in the arms of his friends.
From the hour that she received the intelligence of his death, from the moment that the ominous death-howl met her ear, no smile was ever seen in the once happy lodge of Wanawosh. His daughter pined away by day and by night. Tears and sighs sorrow and lamentations, were heard continually. No efforts to amuse were capable of restoring her lost serenity of mind. Persuasives and reproofs were alternately employed, but employed in vain. It became her favourite custom to fly to a sequestered spot in the woods, and there sit under a shady tree, and sing her mournful laments. She would do so for days together. The following fragment of one of these songs is yet repeated:—
Oh! how can I sing the praise of my love!
His spirit still lingers around me.
The grass which grows upon his bed of earth
Is yet too low;
Its sighs cannot be heard upon the wind.
Oh, he was beautiful!
And he was brave!
I must not break the silence,
The quiet of his still retreat,
Nor waste the time in song,
When his spirit still whispers to mine.
I hear his gentle voice
In the sounds of the newly-budded leaves;
It tells me that he yet lingers near me;
It says he loves in death
Her whom he loved in life,
Though deeply buried in the cold, cold earth.
Whisper, spirit, to me, whisper.
And I shall sing; my song,
When the green grass answers to my plaint,
When in sighs respond to my moan,
Then my voice shall be heard in his praise:
Linger, lover, linger!
Stay, spirit, stay!
The spirit of my love will soon leave me.
He goes to the land of joyful repose;
He gees to prepare my bridal bower.
Sorrowing, I must wait,
Until he comes, to call my soul away.
Hasten, lover, hasten!
Come, spirit, come!
Thus she daily repeated her plaintive song. It was not long before a small bird of beautiful plumage flew upon the tree, beneath which she usually sat, and, with its sweet and artless notes, seemed to respond to her voice. It was a bird of strange character, such as she had never seen before. It came every day and sang to her, remaining until it became dark. Her fond imagination soon led her to suppose that it was the spirit of her lover, and her visits to the favourite spot were repeated with greater frequency. She now gave herself up to singing and fasting. Thus she pined away, until that death which she had so fervently desired came to her relief. After her decease, the bird was never more seen. It became a popular opinion with her nation, that this mysterious bird had flown away with her soul to the land of bliss. But the bitter tears of remorse fell in the tent of Wanawosh, and he lived many years to regret his false pride and his harsh treatment of the unfortunate youth.