HARRISON. Absurd! The treaties of Fort Wayne must stand. Your village chiefs are heads of civil rule, Whose powers you seek to centre in yourself, Or vest in warriors whose trade is blood. We bought from those, and from your peaceful men-- Your wiser brothers--who had faith in us. TECUMSEH. Poor, ruined brothers, weaned from honest lives! HARRISON. They knew our wisdom, and preferred to sell Their cabins, fields, and wilds of unused lands For rich reserves and ripe annuities. As for your nations being one like ours-- 'Tis false--else would they speak one common tongue. Nay, more! your own traditions trace you here-- Widespread in lapse of ages through the land-- From o'er the mighty ocean of the West. What better title have you than ourselves, Who came from o'er the ocean of the East, And meet with you on free and common ground? Be reasonable, and let wisdom's words Displace your passion, and give judgment vent Think more of bounty, and talk less of rights-- Our hands are full of gifts, our hearts of love. TECUMSEH. My brother's love is like the trader's warmth-- O'er with the purchase. Oh, unhappy lives-- Our gifts which go for yours! Once we were strong. Once all this mighty continent was ours, And the Great Spirit made it for our use. He knew no boundaries, so had we peace In the vast shelter of His handiwork, And, happy here, we cared not whence we came. We brought no evils thence--no treasured hate, No greed of gold, no quarrels over God; And so our broils, to narrow issues joined, Were soon composed, and touched the ground of peace. Our very ailments, rising from the earth, And not from any foul abuse in us, Drew back, and let age ripen to death's hand. Thus flowed our lives until your people came, Till from the East our matchless misery came! Since then our tale is crowded with your crimes, With broken faith, with plunder of reserves-- The sacred remnants of our wide domain-- With tamp'rings, and delirious feasts of fire, The fruit of your thrice-cursed stills of death, Which make our good men bad, our bad men worse, Aye! blind them till they grope in open day, And stumble into miserable graves. Oh, it is piteous, for none will hear! There is no hand to help, no heart to feel, No tongue to plead for us in all your land. But every hand aims death, and every heart, Ulcered with hate, resents our presence here; And every tongue cries for our children's land To expiate their crime of being born. Oh, we have ever yielded in the past, But we shall yield no more! Those plains are ours! Those forests are our birth-right and our home! Let not the Long-Knife build one cabin there-- Or fire from it will spread to every roof, To compass you, and light your souls to death!