"This is insolence to me,"
Said Proctor bitterly.
"But a paltry leader," said the brave red-skinned ally
"We stand in hopeless fray,
To meet defeat today;
A shadow falls around me, my fate is drawing nigh."
High-hearted Indian chief
No thought of fear or grief
Stilled the swellings of his heart, tamed the lightning of his glance
Without lordship, without land,
"Lord alone of his right hand,"
Of a heart that never beat retreat when duty said advance.
He had looked on battle oft,
Now his eagle glance grew soft,
And who can tell what sights his prophetic vision saw
Events were drawing near,
And he was a mighty seer,
Even greater than the prophet, the grim Elskwatawa.
For, in a waking dream,
He saw forest, vale and stream,
Which, by force or fraud, the white race wrung from doomed red men.
"Old things are passed," he said,
"No blood that can be shed,
Will ever give us back our broad hunting-grounds again"
"Over the burial mound,
Over the hunting-ground,
Over the forest wigwam the greedy white wave flows,
In treachery, or wrath,
They sweep us from their path,
Backward, and ever backward, beyond Sierra snows
"We tried to stem the wave,
We have been bold and brave,
We held the losing cause, the Great Spirit hid his face,
Our nation's place is gone,
The white wave will roll on,
Until from sea to sea we have no abiding place
"Although we do not stand
To do battle for our land,
The allies that we fight for, though white men, do not lie,
Their foes are ours, stand fast,
This fight shall be my last,
'Tis fitting, on the war-path, the Shawnee chief should die
"Where we have pitched our camp,
Red blood shall dye the swamp,
The battle to the swift, the victory to the strong,
But be it as it will,
My braves shall vanish still,
Slain by pale face customs, snared by their treacherous tongue"
He turned, where in their pride
Stood his warriors by his side,
For them to-morrow's sun might shine, to-morrow's breezes blow,
"But Tecumthe's lot is cast,
This fight shall be his last,
And they will do my wish," he said, "when I am lying low"
Wyandot's chieftain grave,
Young and lithe, hold and brave,
Stood by Tecumthe, waiting the beginning of the fray;
Tecumthe silence broke,
And thus to him he spoke,
"My brother from this onset I'll never come away.