“He is dead, the sweet musician! 
He the sweetest of all singers! 
He has gone from us forever,
He has moved a little nearer
To the Master of all music,
To the Master of all singing! 
O my brother, Chibiabos!”
  And the melancholy fir-trees
Waved their dark green fans above him,
Waved their purple cones above him,
Sighing with him to console him,
Mingling with his lamentation
Their complaining, their lamenting. 
  Came the Spring, and all the forest
Looked in vain for Chibiabos;
Sighed the rivulet, Sebowisha,
Sighed the rushes in the meadow. 
  From the tree-tops sang the bluebird,
Sang the bluebird, the Owaissa,
“Chibiabos!  Chibiabos! 
He is dead, the sweet musician!”
  From the wigwam sang the robin,
Sang the robin, the Opechee,
“Chibiabos!  Chibiabos! 
He is dead, the sweetest singer!”
  And at night through all the forest
Went the whippoorwill complaining,
Wailing went the Wawonaissa,
“Chibiabos!  Chibiabos! 
He is dead, the sweet musician! 
He the sweetest of all singers!”
  Then the Medicine-men, the Medas,
The magicians, the Wabenos,
And the Jossakeeds, the Prophets,
Came to visit Hiawatha;
Built a Sacred Lodge beside him,
To appease him, to console him,
Walked in silent, grave procession,
Bearing each a pouch of healing,
Skin of beaver, lynx, or otter,
Filled with magic roots and simples,
Filled with very potent medicines. 
  When he heard their steps approaching,
Hiawatha ceased lamenting,
Called no more on Chibiabos;
Naught he questioned, naught he answered,
But his mournful head uncovered,
From his face the mourning colors
Washed he slowly and in silence,
Slowly and in silence followed
Onward to the Sacred Wigwam. 
  There a magic drink they gave him,
Made of Nahma-wusk, the spearmint,
And Wabeno-wusk, the yarrow,
Roots of power, and herbs of healing;
Beat their drums, and shook their rattles;
Chanted singly and in chorus,
Mystic songs like these, they chanted. 
  “I myself, myself! behold me! 
’T is the great Gray Eagle talking;
Come, ye white crows, come and hear him! 
The loud-speaking thunder helps me;
All the unseen spirits help me;
I can hear their voices calling,
All around the sky I hear them! 
I can blow you strong, my brother,
I can heal you, Hiawatha!”
  “Hi-au-ha!” replied the chorus,
“Way-ha-way!” the mystic chorus. 
  “Friends of mine are all the serpents! 
Hear me shake my skin of hen-hawk! 
Mahng, the white loon, I can kill him;
I can shoot your heart and kill it! 
I can blow you strong, my brother,
I can heal you, Hiawatha!”
  “Hi-au-ha!” replied the chorus,
“Way-ha-way!” the mystic chorus. 
  “I myself, myself! the prophet! 
When I speak the wigwam trembles,
Shakes the Sacred Lodge with terror,
Hands unseen begin to shake it!