and the stars shun the day;
But glory remains when their lights fade away!
Begin, ye tormentors! your threats are in vain,
For the son of Alknomook shall never complain.

II.

Remember the arrows he shot from his bow;
Remember your chiefs by his hatchet laid low:
Why so slow?--do you wait till I shrink from the pain?
No--the son of Alknomook will never complain.

III.

Remember the wood where in ambush we lay,
And the scalps which we bore from your nation away:
Now the flame rises fast, you exult in my pain;
But the son of Alknomook can never complain.

IV.

I go to the land where my father is gone;
His ghost shall rejoice in the fame of his son:
Death comes like a friend, he relieves me from pain;
And thy son, Oh Alknomook! has scorn'd to complain.

There is something in this song which ever calls forth my affections.
The manly virtue of courage, that fortitude which steels the heart
against the keenest misfortunes, which interweaves the laurel of glory
amidst the instruments of torture and death, displays something so
noble, so exalted, that in despite of the prejudices of education I
cannot but admire it, even in a savage. The prepossession which our
sex is supposed to entertain for the character of a soldier is, I know,
a standing piece of raillery among the wits. A cockade, a lapell'd
coat, and a feather, they will tell you, are irresistible by a female
heart. Let it be so. Who is it that considers the helpless situation
of our sex, that does not see that we each moment stand in need of a
protector, and that a brave one too? Formed of the more delicate
materials of nature, endowed only with the softer passions, incapable,
from our ignorance of the world, to guard against the wiles of mankind,
our security for happiness often depends upon their generosity and
courage. Alas! how little of the former do we find! How
inconsistent! that man should be leagued to destroy that honour upon
which solely rests his respect and esteem. Ten thousand temptations
allure us, ten thousand passions betray us; yet the smallest deviation
from the path of rectitude is followed by the contempt and insult of
man, and the more remorseless pity of woman; years of penitence and
tears cannot wash away the stain, nor a life of virtue obliterate its
remembrance. Reputation is the life of woman; yet courage to protect
it is masculine and disgusting; and the only safe asylum a wom