Remember the wood where in ambush we lay; And the scalps which we bore from your nation away: Now the flame rises fast, you exult in my pain; But the son of Alknomook can never complain. IV. I go to the land where my father is gone; His ghost shall rejoice in the fame of his son: Death comes like a friend, he relieves me from pain; And thy son, O Alknomook! has scorn'd to complain. There is something in this song which ever calls forth my affections. The manly virtue of courage, that fortitude which steels the heart against the keenest misfortunes, which interweaves the laurel of glory amidst the instruments of torture and death, displays something so noble, so exalted, that in despite of the prejudices of education, I cannot but admire it, even in a savage. The prepossession which our sex is supposed to entertain for the character of a soldier is, I know, a standing piece of raillery among the wits. A cockade, a lapell'd coat, and a feather, they will tell you, are irresistible by a female heart. Let it be so. Who is it that considers the helpless situation of our sex, that does not see that we each moment stand in need of a protector, and that a brave one too? [Formed of the more delicate materials of nature, endowed only with the softer passions, incapable, from our ignorance of the world, to guard against the wiles of mankind, our security for happiness often depends upon their generosity and courage:--Alas! how little of the former do we find!] How inconsistent! that man should be leagued to destroy that honour upon which solely rests his respect and esteem. Ten thousand temptations allure us, ten thousand passions betray us; yet the smallest deviation from the path of rectitude is followed by the contempt and insult of man, and the more remorseless pity of woman; years of penitence and tears cannot wash away the stain, nor a life of virtue obliterate its remembrance. [Reputation is the life of woman; yet courage to protect it is masculine and disgusting; and the only safe asylum a woman of delicacy can find is in the arms of a man of honour. How naturally, then, should we love the brave and the generous; how gratefully should we bless the arm raised for our protection, when nerv'd by virtue and directed by honour!] Heaven grant that the man with whom I may be connected--may be connected!--Whither has my imagination transported me--whither does it now lead me? Am I not indissolubly engaged, [by every obligation of honour which my own consent and my father's approbation can give,] to a man who can never share my affections, and whom a few days hence it will be criminal for me to disapprove--to disapprove! would to heaven that were all--to despise. For, can the most frivolous manners, actuated by the most depraved heart, meet, or merit, anything but contempt from every woman of delicacy and sentiment? [_VAN ROUGH without_: Mary!] Ha! my father's voice--Sir!-- _Enter VAN ROUGH._