ill melt, or draw across the British line,
And wait for war. But double the night watch,
Lest he should strike, and give an instant care
To all our wounded men: to-morrow's sun
Must light us on our backward march for home.
Thence Rumor's tongue will spread so proud a story
New England will grow envious of our glory;
And, greedy for renown so long abhorr'd,
Will on old England draw the tardy sword!

SCENE.--_The Ruins of the Prophet's Town._

_Enter the_ PROPHET, _who gloomily surveys the place._

_Prophet._ Our people scatter'd, and our town in ashes!
To think these hands could work such madness here--
This envious head devise this misery!
Tecumseh, had not my ambition drawn
Such sharp and fell destruction on our race
You might have smiled at me! for I have match'd
My cunning 'gainst your wisdom, and have dragg'd
Myself and all into a sea of ruin.

_Enter_ TECUMSEH.

_Tecumseh._ Devil! I have discover'd you at last!
You sum of treacheries, whose wolfish fangs
Have torn our people's flesh--you shall not live!

[_The_ PROPHET _retreats facing and followed by_ TECUMSEH.

_Prophet._ Nay--strike me not! I can explain it all!
It was a woman touch'd the Magic Bowl,
And broke the brooding spell.

_Tecumseh._ Impostor! Slave!
Why should I spare you? [_Lifts his hand as if to strike._

_Prophet._ Stay, stay, touch me not!
One mother bore us in the self-same hour.

_Tecumseh._ Then good and evil came to light together.
Go to the corn-dance, change your name to villain!
Away! Your presence tempts my soul to mischief.
[_Exit the_ PROPHET _hastily._
Would that I were a woman, and could weep,
And slake hot rage with tears! O spiteful fortune,
To lure me to the limit of my dreams,
Then turn and crowd the ruin of my toil
Into the narrow compass of a night!
My brother's deep disgrace--myself the scorn
Of envious harriers and thieves of fame,
Who fain would rob me of the lawful meed
Of faithful services and duties done--
Oh, I could bear it all! But to behold
Our ruin'd people hunted to their graves--
To see the Long-Knife triumph in their shame--
This is the burning shaft, the poison'd wound
That rankles in my soul! But, why despair?
All is not lost--the English are our friends.
My spirit rises--manhood bear me up!
I'll haste to Malden, join my force to theirs,
And fall with double fury on our foes.
Farewell ye plains and forests, bu