II.
Remember the arrows he shot from his bow;
Remember your chiefs by his hatchet laid low:
Why so slow?--do you wait till I shrink from the pain?
No--the son of Alknomook will never complain.
III.
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, Oh 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.
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