Twelve moons have wasted, and no tidings still! Tecumseh must have perished! Joy has tears As 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 name Has flown so far upon the wings of fear That 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 foes Trust him the most. Rash fool! Him do I dread, And his imperious spirit. Twelve infant moons Have 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.