The fear from which you fly, is this— You would not _make_ but _find_ your bliss. But so God ruleth not his people. He Hath so hewn out our destiny, And linked it with our own free will, That means with ends must tally still. The bliss for which you chase and roam, You might more truly find at home, If but one tittle of the time You give to hunting, war, and crime, Were turned, with simple, peaceful hand, To stocks or grain upon the land. Besides, in every good man’s view, You worship now—ye know not who; The very Power, which, dark of eye, If seen, ye would most swiftly fly. MONGAZID. ’Tis well! _Thy_ god will list to _thee_, And think’st thou _mine_ shall turn from _me_? More may be vain: thee and thy crew Fair skies o’ershadow—friend, adieu! DE LA JOIE. Hunter, stay; I have a gift, Of such potence it shall lift From thy brain, and from thy mind, Every care of grosser kind, Every latent, earthly woe, Such as weary mortals know, And induce the lifted soul In one round of joy to roll. It shall banish selfish care, Change the fouler fate to fair, And inspire, with visions high, Thy sedate, prophetic eye. Take this little vase; the draught May be oft and freely quaffed, By those only who have felt Oft its sovereign power to melt, Raise and gladden; but with care Let thy lips the liquid share! When the sun, with splendor bright, Wakes the drowsy world with light, Come thou hither, straight, and tell If my gift be ill or well: If my words thou findest true— If such raptures may ensue— And, with new-found courage brave, Thou wilt tempt with me the wave. ETHWALD. [_An attendant here introduces the pipe of peace._] Accept my pledge of purpose high, That calls me to your northern sky. Much have I heard, and longed to view These spreading coasts, and waters blue, These rosy skies, and beaming shores, Replete with all their sylvan stores. Nor less my interest in that race Who poise the dart, and lead the chase; And, with a pride of kin and sire, Still light up here their council fire. Tradition hath informed me well Of deeds in which ye yet excel: Your skill by water, rift and rock, The war-path and the battle’s shock; And all those arts, through which ye sing, “I am the wild-wood’s subtle king.” Take of my proffered pledge: we stand Thus heart in heart, as hand in hand. MONGAZID. So be it, sire: the heavens turn black On all who from this pledge draw back. CANTO II. THE SACRED ISLAND. A DISCOVERY. [_Scene._ The broad expanse of the Lake. An assemblage of Indian canoes on the water. One, in advance, bearing the national flag of the United States. Time—morning.]