[Scene. The Cave; Alhalla, Ethwald, Oscar, Mongazid, Ednee,
Clewalla, De la Joie; with their separate retinues and attendants.
Time, Evening.]
As spoke the chief of waning fate,
And foeman’s ire, and spirit’s hate,
And hurried on through martial feats,
And routs, and battles, and defeats,
No tremor weak, or muscle’s throe,
Betoken’d mark of inward woe,
Or, aught the scanning eye could see,
That stoic warrior should not be.
But when he told of sacred seats,
And winding shores, and still retreats,
By trampling hoof, and rampart soil’d,
And sepulchre of gifts despoil’d
To light the torch, that spread amain
One smoking ruin o’er the plain,—
And that, though loved and cherish’d yet,
The land his soul could ne’er forget,
He sicken’d on that soil to be,
When now no longer blest or free—
An altered brow, a look of fire,
Betray a burst of scorn and ire,
And that high spirit, air, and gait,
Which rises still above its fate,
And though hem’d in by want or pain,
Stoops not to parley or complain.
And when he ceas’d—in conscious pride,
He drew his ample robe aside,
Revealing gorget, crest, and ring,
Th’ insignia of an Indian King,
And cowry shell, and wampum wreath,
That ill-conceal’d the scars beneath,
And all might know, and all might see,
His double honors and degree.
Then folding back, with lofty air,
His wrapper-robe—erect and fair,
With martial pomp, and thoughtful mood,
In silent majesty he stood;—
An object, more ennobled far,
By high-born soul, and honored scar,
Than all the baubles, gaud, and show,
That mortal monarch can bestow.
While yet the chieftain’s accents rung
Upon the mind, and chain’d each tongue,
With looks that spoke some latent care,
Though ill concealed by studied air,
Advanced, with ever sober speed,
That spare and silver’d Jossakeed,
Grave Mongazid, and in his hand
He bore a pipe, and held a wand,
And from his belt, securely drawn,
Impends the furr’d Metá-wyaun—
A sacred care—while eagle’s crest
And amulet protect his breast
From ill by unseen spirit sent,
Or fiend’s transforming punishment;
(Such as once fell, to his deep ken,
When gods assumed the shapes of men,)
And over all, the quiver light,
And javelin-club, for mortal fight
Contingent: Bold and free his tone,
Bow or obeisance makes he none;
But, pois’d erect as plummet’s line,
Thus speaks of evil thought—design:
The while on Oscar casts his eyes,
Or Ethwald, bent in mute surprise.