2ND OFFICER. Fear you a night-attack, sir?

HARRISON. Fear it! No! I but anticipate, and shall
prepare.
'Tis sunset, and too late for better choice,
Else were the Prophet welcome to his ground.
Pitch tents and draw our baggage to the centre;
Girdle the camp with lynx-eyed sentinels;
Detail strong guards of choice and wakeful men
As pickets in advance of all oar lines;
Place mounted riflemen on both our flanks;
Our cavalry take post in front and rear,
But still within the lines of infantry,
Which, struck at any point, must hold the ground
Until relieved. Cover your rifle pans -
The thick clouds threaten rain. I look to you
To fill these simple orders to the letter.
But stay! Let all our camp fires burn
Till, if attacked, we form - then drown them out.
The darkness falls - make disposition straight;
Then, all who can, to sleep upon their arms.
I fear me, ere night yields to morning pale,
The warriors' yell will sound our wild reveille.

SCENE FOURTH. - TECUMSEH'S CABIN.

Enter IENA.

IENA. Tis night, and Mamatee is absent still!
Why should this sorrow weigh upon my heart,
And other lonely things on earth have rest?
Oh, could I be with them! The lily shone
All day upon the stream, and now it sleeps
Under the wave in peace - in cradle soft
Which sorrow soon may fashion for my grave.
Ye shadows which do creep into my thoughts -
Ye curtains of despair! what is my fault,
That ye should hide the happy earth from me?
Once I had joy of it, when tender Spring,
Mother of beauty, hid me in her leaves;
When Summer led me by the shores of song,
And forests and far-sounding cataracts
Melted my soul with music. I have heard
The rough chill harpings of dismantled woods,
When Fall had stripped them, and have felt a joy
Deeper than ear could lend unto the heart;
And when the Winter from his mountains wild
Looked down on death, and, in the frosty sky,
The very stars seemed hung with icicles,
Then came a sense of beauty calm and cold,
That weaned me from myself, yet knit me still
With kindred bonds to Nature. All is past,
And he - who won from me such love for him,
And he - my valiant uncle and my friend,
Comes not to lift the cloud that drapes my soul,
And shield me from the fiendish Prophet's power.

[Enter MAMATEE.]

Give me his answer in his very words!

MAMATEE. There is a black storm raging in his mind -
His eye darts lightning like the angry cloud
Which hangs in woven darkness o'er the earth.
Brief is his answer - you must go to him.
The Long-Knife's camp fires gleam among the oaks
Which dot yon western hill. A thousand men
Are sleeping there cajoled to fatal dreams
By promises the Prophet breaks to-night. Hark! 'tis the
war-song.