Excerpt
SCENE FIRST.—THE FOREST NEAR THE PROPHET'S TOWN ON THE TIPPECANOE.
Enter the PROPHET.
PROPHET. Twelve moons have wasted, and no tidings still!
Tecumseh must have perished! Joy has tearsAs well as grief, and mine will freely flow—Sembling our women's piteous privilege—Whilst dry ambition ambles to its ends.My schemes have swelled to greatness, and my nameHas flown so far upon the wings of fearThat nations tremble at its utterance.Our braves abhor, yet stand in awe of me,Who ferret witchcraft out, commune with Heaven,And ope or shut the gloomy doors of death.All feelings and all seasons suit ambition!Yet my vindictive nature hath a craft,In action slow, which matches mother-earth's:First seed-time—then the harvest of revenge.Who works for power, and not the good of men,Would rather win by fear than lose by love.Not so Tecumseh—rushing to his ends,And followed by men's love—whose very foesTrust him the most. Rash fool! Him do I dread,And his imperious spirit. Twelve infant moonsHave swung in silver cradles o'er these woods,And, still no tidings of his enterprise,Which—all too deep and wide—has swallowed him.And left me here unrivalled and alone.
Enter an INDIAN RUNNER.
Ha! There's a message in your eyes—what now?
RUNNER. Your brother, great Tecumseh, has returned,And rests himself a moment ere he comesTo counsel with you here.
[Exit Runner.]
PROPHET. He has returned!So then the growing current of my powerMust fall again into the stately streamOf his great purpose. But a moment pastI stood upon ambition's height, and nowMy brother comes to break my greatness up,And merge it in his own. I know his thoughts—That I am but a helper to his ends;And, were there not a whirlpool in my soulOf hatred which would fain ingulf our foes,I would engage my cunning and my craft'Gainst his simplicity, and win the lead.But, hist, he comes! I must assume the roleBy which I pander to his purposes.
Enter TECUMSEH.
TECUMSEH. Who is this standing in the darkened robes?
PROPHET. The Prophet! Olliwayshilla, who probesThe spirit-world, and holds within his kenLife's secrets and the fateful deeds of men.The "One-Eyed!" Brother to the Shooting Star—
TECUMSEH. With heart of wax, and hands not made forwar.
PROPHET. Would that my hands were equal to my hate!Then would strange vengeance traffic on the earth;For I should treat our foes to what they crave—Our fruitful soil—yea, ram it down their throats,And choke them with the very dirt they love.'Tis you Tecumseh! You, are here at last,And welcome as the strong heat-bearing SpringWhich opens up the pathways of revenge.What tidings from afar?
TECUMSEH. Good tidings thence.I have not seen the Wyandots, but allThe distant nations will unite with usTo spurn the fraudful treaties of Fort Wayne.From Talapoosa to the HarricanawI have aroused them from their lethargy.From the hot gulf up to those confines rude,Where Summer's sides are pierced with icicles,They stand upon my call. What tidings here?
PROPHET. No brand has struck to bark our enterpriseWhich grows on every side....