BROCK. Then say no more! Glegg, take a flag of truce, And bear to Hull this summons to surrender. Tell him Tecumseh and his force are here-- A host of warriors brooding on their wrongs, Who, should resistance flush them to revenge, Would burst from my control like wind-borne fire, And match on earth the miseries of hell. But, should he yield, his safety is assured. Tell him Tecumseh's word is pledged to this, Who, though his temperate will in peace is law Yet casts a loose rein to enforced rage. Add what your fancy dictates; but the stress Place most on what I speak of--this he fears, And these same fears, well wrought upon by you, May prove good workers for us yet. GLEGG. I go, And shall acquit myself as best I can. [_Exit_ GLEGG.] BROCK. Tecumseh, wonder not at such a message! The guilty conscience of your foes is judge Of their deserts, and hence 'twill be believed. The answer may be 'nay,' so to our work-- Which perfected, we shall confer again, Then cross at break of morn. [_Exeunt all but_ TECUMSEH.] TECUMSEH. This is a man! And our great father, waking from his sleep, Has sent him to oar aid. Master of Life, Endue my warriors with double strength! May the wedged helve be faithful to the axe, The arrow fail not, and the flint be firm! That our great vengeance, like the whirlwind fell, May cleave through thickets of our enemies A broad path to our ravaged lands again. [_Exit_.] SCENE SIXTH.--MOONLIGHT. THE BANK OF THE DETROIT RIVER, NEAR THE BABY MANSION. _Enter_ CAPTAIN ROBINSON. ROBINSON. I thought to find my brother here--poor boy, The day's hard labor woos him to his rest. How sweet the night! how beautiful the place! Who would not love thee, good old Sandwich town! Abode of silence and sweet summer dreams-- Let speculation pass, nor progress touch Thy silvan homes with hard, unhallowed hand! The light wind whispers, and the air is rich With vapours which exhale into the night; And, round me here, this village in the leaves Darkling doth slumber. How those giant pears Loom with uplifted and high-ancient heads, Like forest trees! A hundred years ago They, like their owner, had their roots in France-- In fruitful Normandy--but here refuse Unlike, to multiply, as if their spirits Grieved in their alien home. The village sleeps, So should I seek that hospitable roof Of thine, thou good old loyalist, Baby! Thy mansion is a shrine, whereto shall come On pilgrimages, in the distant days, The strong and generous youths of Canada, And, musing there in rich imaginings, Restore the balance and the beaver-pack To the wide hall; see forms of savagery, Vanished for ages, and the stately shades Of great Tecumseh and high-hearted Brock. So shall they profit, drinking of the past, And, drinking loyally, enlarge the faith Which love of country breeds in noble minds. But now to sleep--good night unto the world! [_Exit_.] SCENE SEVENTH.--THE SAME. _Enter_ IENA, _in distress_.