war.

PROPHET. Would that my hands were equal to my hate!
Then would strange vengeance traffic on the earth;
For I should treat our foes to what they crave--
Our fruitful soil--yea, ram it down their throats,
And choke them with the very dirt they love.
'Tis you Tecumseh! You, are here at last,
And welcome as the strong heat-bearing Spring
Which opens up the pathways of revenge.
What tidings from afar?

TECUMSEH. Good tidings thence.
I have not seen the Wyandots, but all
The distant nations will unite with us
To spurn the fraudful treaties of Fort Wayne.
From Talapoosa to the Harricanaw
I have aroused them from their lethargy.
From the hot gulf up to those confines rude,
Where Summer's sides are pierced with icicles,
They stand upon my call. What tidings here?

PROPHET. No brand has struck to bark our enterprise
Which grows on every side. The Prophet's robe,
That I assumed when old Pengasega died--
With full accord and countenance from you--
Fits a strong shoulder ampler far than his;
And all our people follow me in fear.

TECUMSEH. Would that they followed you in love!