Nadowessian Death-Lament.

See, he sitteth on his mat     Sitteth there upright,     With the grace with which he sat     While he saw the light.     Where is now the sturdy gripe,     Where the breath sedate,     That so lately whiffed the pipe     Toward the Spirit great?     Where the bright and falcon eye,     That the reindeer's tread     On the waving grass could spy,     Thick with dewdrops spread?     Where the limbs that used to dart     Swifter through the snow     Than the twenty-membered hart,     Than the mountain roe?     Where the arm that sturdily     Bent the deadly bow?     See, its life hath fleeted by,     See, it hangeth low!     Happy he! He now has gone     Where no snow is found:     Where with maize the fields are sown,     Self-sprung from the ground;     Where with birds each bush is filled,     Where with game the wood;     Where the fish, with joy unstilled,     Wanton in the flood.     With the spirits blest he feeds,     Leaves us here in gloom;     We can only praise his deeds,     And his corpse entomb.     Farewell-gifts, then, hither bring,     Sound the death-note sad!     Bury with him everything     That can make him glad!     'Neath his head the hatchet hide     That he boldly swung;     And the bear's fat haunch beside,     For the road is long;     And the knife, well sharpened,     That, with slashes three,     Scalp and skin from foeman's head     Tore off skilfully.     And to paint his body, place     Dyes within his hand;     Let him shine with ruddy grace     In the Spirit-land!