Chapter LXXVIII

While thus they spake, the sun declining low,
In Narraganset’s shades, half veiled his light;
On rapid pinions did the dark winged crow
And broad plumed eagle speed their homeward flight;
Warned by the signs, the twain, descending slow,
In converse grave, pass down the wooded height;
And, in the Sachem’s sylvan palace, share
Respite from hunger, toil, and present care.

CANTO SIXTH.

[SCENE. Seekonk’s Mead, or Place of the First Settlement.]

The winds of March o’er Narraganset’s bay
Move in their strength--the waves with foam are white;
O’er Seekonk’s tide the tossing branches play,
The woods roar o’er resounding plain and height;
’Twixt sailing clouds, the sun’s inconstant ray
But glances on the scene--then fades from sight;
The frequent showers dash from the passing clouds;
The hills are peeping through their wintry shrouds.

II.

Dissolving snows each downward channel fill,
Each swollen brook a foaming torrent brawls,
Old Seekonk murmurs, and from every hill
Answer aloud the coming waterfalls;
Deep-voiced Pawtucket thunders louder still,--
To dark Mooshausick joyously he calls,
Who breaks his bondage, and through forests brown
Murmurs the hoarse response and rolls his tribute down.

III.

But hark! that sound, above the cataracts
And hollow winds in this wild solitude,
Seems passing strange.--Who with the laboring axe,
On Seekonk’s eastern marge, invades the wood?
Stroke follows stroke;--some sturdy hind attacks
Yon ancient groves, which from their birth have stood
Unmarred by steel, and, startled at the sound,
The wild deer snuffs the gales,--then, with a bound,

IV.

Vaults o’er the thickets, and down yonder glen
His antlers vanish; on yon shaggy height
Sits the lone wolf, half-peering from his den,
And howls regardless of the morning light;
Unwonted sounds and a strange denizen
Vex his repose; soon, cowering with affright,
He shrinks away, for with a crackling sound,
Yon hemlock bows and thunders to the ground.

V.

Who on the prostrate trunk has risen now,
And does with cleaving steel the blows renew?
Broad is the beaver on his manly brow,
His mantle gray, his hosen azure blue;
His feet are dripping with dissolving snow,
His garments sated with the morning dew;--
Our Founder is he, and, though changed by long
And grievous suffering, steadfast still and strong.

VI.

Hard by yon little fountain clear and sheen,
Whose swollen streamlet murmurs down the glade,
Where groves of hemlock and of cedars green
Oppose to northern storms a barricade,
Stands the first mansion of his rude demesne,
A slender wigwam by red Waban made;
Their common shelter from the wintry blast;
And place of rest when daily toils are past.

VII.

Yet from the storm he seldom shrinks away,
With his own hands he labors now to rear
A mansion, where his wife and children may,
In happier days, partake the social cheer;
And unrelenting bigot ne’er essay
To make the free-born spirit quail with fear
At threat of scourge, or banishment or death,
For free belief, the soul’s sustaining breath.

VIII.

Day after day does he his toil renew;
From dawn till dark still doth his axe resound,
And falling cedars still the valley strew,
Or cumber with their trunks the littered ground;
The solid beams and rafters does he hew,
Or labors hard to roll or heave them round;
Or squares their sides, or shapes the joints aright
To match their fellows and the whole unite.

IX.

The beams now hewn, he frames the building square,
Each joint adjusting to its counterpart--
Tier over tier with labor does he bear,
Timber on timber closes every part,
Except where door or lattice to the air
A passage yields,--and from the walls now start
The rafters, matted over and between,--
Against the storm and cold,--with rushes green.

X.

Long did this task his patient cares engage,
’Twas labor strange to hands like his, I ween,
That had far oftener turned the sacred page
Than hewed the trunk or delved the grassy green;
But toils like these gave honors to the sage;
The axe and spade in no one’s hands are mean,
And least of all in thine, that toiled to clear
The mind’s free march--Illustrious Pioneer!

XI.

His cottage finished, he proceeds to rear
A strong rude paling round that verdant glade
His field and garden soon will flourish there,
And wild marauders may their fruits invade;
His maize may be a banquet for the bear,
And herds of deer may on his herbage tread;
But little thinks he that intruders worse
Than these will enter and his labors curse.

XII.

Now milder spring ushers its April showers,
And up fair Seekonk woos the southern breeze;
The birds are singing in their woodland bowers,
Green grows the ground and budding are the trees
The purple violets and wild strawberry flowers
Invite the visits of the murmuring bees;
And down the glade the twittering swallow slips,
And in the stream her nimble pinions dips.

XIII.

And now, with vigor and redoubled haste,
Our Founder delves to plant the foodful maize;
He turns the glebe, does nature’s rankness waste,
The boscage burn, and noxious brambles raze;
Then o’er the seed, on earth’s brown bosom placed,
The fertile mould with careful hand he lays;
Nor yet content,--still labors, other whiles,
The glade to gladden with a garden’s smiles.

XIV.

Then in the woods he carved the deep alcove,
And led the climbing vines from tree to tree;
But near the cottage left the birchen grove,
Its tassels waving in the breezes free;
While o’er the stream their boughs the cedars wove,
Where wound a walk adown the murmuring lea;
And gadding vines embowered the fount’s bright flow
’Twixt banks of vernal flowers in bloom below.

XV.

Ne’er hatchet touched the overhanging bough,
Whereon the robin built her wonted nest;
About the borders did the wild rose grow,
For there the thrush might soothe her brood to rest;
Nor would he banish from her dwelling low
The long-eared rabbit, but her young caressed;
Fed from his hand they gambolled in the grove,
Caressed our Sire in turn, and mimicked human love.

XVI.

And these long toils had Waban’s faithful aid;
His twanging bow announced the early dawn;
Boldly he pushed into the deepest shade,
Or scanned the tracks upon the dewy lawn;
With lusty arms he grappled on the glade
The growling bear, or caught the bounding fawn,
Or, with sure arrow and resounding bow,
Brought down the turkey from her lofty bough.

XVII.

Sometimes he would the river’s bed explore,
Where with sure grasp the slippery eels he caught;
Sometimes he delved along the sandy shore,
And to the lodge the shelly tribute brought;
And ever shared he with his Sagamore,
(For so to call our Founder he was taught,)
The produce of his toils; and ’twas his care
To parch the maize and spread the frugal fare.

XVIII.

So for a while they two in quietude,
With hopes auspicious, urged their task along,--
Lighter of heart; though Williams still would brood,
And inly marvel, o’er the missing throng
Of friendly Indians, issuing from the wood
To greet him with “What-Cheer” in voices strong;
And oft would wonder if perchance a vain
Illusion had beguiled his troubled brain.

XIX.

But omens dark and dire appeared at last:
The grim Pawaw had seen the mansion rise,--
Had from Mooshausick’s highlands often cast
On the advancing work his watchful eyes;
And often, wafted on the passing blast,
Our Sire had heard that wizard’s warning cries:--
Yet hoped that, baffled and chastised, his pride,
And courage too, had with his serpent died.

XX.

Vain hope! The close had scarce been made secure,
Ere Seekonk’s western marge was blazing bright,
And decked with horns, and furs, and paints impure,
The prophet with a comrade danced all night
Around the flame, and howling, did adjure
His manittoo that most abhorred the light
To give him aid, and, by or force or fraud,
His hated neighbor drive once more abroad.

XXI.

War! war! he threatened:--and when morning came,--
Though quenched the fire,--upon the margin he,
All trim for strife, bent his gigantic frame
O’er Seekonk’s severing flow, and toward the lea
Shook his ensanguined barb and smote the stream,
And muttered curses numbering three times three;
Then bent his bow, and sent across the flood
Darts armed with serpents’ fangs and red with blood.

XXII.

And brandishing his blade, he jeering said,
That vengeance gave it eyes and appetite,
It soon would eat, but eat in silence dread;
That if the red men all were turning white,
He’d seek the white men that were turning red;
The path was open, and his foot was light;
The Shawmut[20] hunters would with greedy ear
Hear in what covert couched their stricken deer.

[20] The Indian name for Boston.

XXIII.

Then, with a hideous yell that rent the skies,
He sternly turned and tow’rd Mooshausick flew.
Waban who watched the scene with blazing eyes,
Swift answer gave in shouts of valor true.
From threats like these our Sire might harm surmise,
But that he deemed the wily wizard knew
How heavy was Miantonomi’s spear,
And, if ’twere needful, might be made to fear.

XXIV.

But, after this portentous morn, scarce sun
Looked on that glade, but brought them fresh alarms;
If Waban delved the shores or walked thereon,
Missiles around him flew from hidden arms;
His snares were plundered ere the morning shone,
Clubs smeared with blood and threatening deadly harms
Lay in his path, and voices strangely broke
From viewless forms on shrub, or tree, or rock.

XXV.

Oft from the vacant air came bitter jeer
In gibberish strange, and oft from under ground
A hellish mockery smote the hunter’s ear,
And he would start; but if he glanced around
And Williams saw, he banished every fear;
For well he knew his Sachem could confound
Such diabolic phantoms,--he who slew,
In Potowomet’s glade, the serpent manittoo.

XXVI.

Then taking courage he would seek the brake,
Cull the straight haft, and arm it with the bone
Or tooth of beaver, and the plumage take
From Neyhom wild to wing and guide it on
Straight to its mark, or with nice handling make
Of sinewy deer the bowstring tough, or hone
His glittering scalping-knife, and grimly feel
How sharp its point, how keen its edge of steel.

XXVII.

At length, no longer heedful of disguise,
Upon the opposing bank the wizard stood,
With meet compeer--both armed; their battle cries
And challenge fired brave Waban’s martial blood;
Scorning all counsel, to the marge he flies,
And shoots his arrows o’er the severing flood;
To taunts and jeers his bow alone replies,
And soon their hostile missiles span the skies.

XXVIII.

From tree to tree the champions fly and fight,
Driving or driven from the sheltering screen,
Each change, each movement, yielding to the sight
Their swarthy members through the foliage green;
Whereat their arrows follow, flight on flight,
With hideous yells at every pause between;
Now down the stream--now at the tumbling falls,
The petty battle raves, and wrath to vengeance calls.

XXIX.

Hour after hour thus raged the doubtful fight,
Until the combatants their shafts had spent;
Then to the river’s marge in peaceful plight,
Bearing the pipe with fumes all redolent,
The fraudful wizard came, as to invite
Across the stream to cheer quite innocent
And friendly league a neighbor and a friend;
“Come, let the pipe,” he said, “the battle end.

XXX.

“Waban is brave, and Tatoban is brave;
Hereafter let us live as neighbors kind,
And let thy arrows sleep; no more shall rave
This knife and hatchet; Tatoban was blind!”
“Go!” Waban cried, “thou and thy dastard slave!
Go trap the Neyhom, or the foolish hind;
But thinkest thou into thy open snare,
To lure the cunning fox, and slay him there?”

XXXI.

Thus closed the strife that day; another came,
And all was peace; another sun and still
Another rose and set, and still the same
Unbroken peace--no threatening sign of ill:
Quite undisturbed red Waban trapped his game
Or delved the shore--no foe appeared; until
Our Sire believed that he might safely bless
His weary hours with earth’s best happiness.

XXXII.

Waban, his only counsellor and friend,
Warrior and subject in this lone domain,
Did now the summons of his chief attend,
And, questioned by him, straightway answered plain.
“Waban,” said Williams, “do our battles end?
Is the war over--have we peace again?
No more on yonder bank the prophet stands
And wings his darts or whirls his blazing brands.”

XXXIII.

Waban replied, “Did ever noon-day light
On midnight break? Did ever tempest shed,
Just as it gathered, radiance mild and bright?
Heard not my Sachem what the prophet said,--
That if the red men were all turning white,
He’d seek such white men as were turning red?
Perchance he goes, and Waban has a fear
That to his cunning speech they’ll lend an ear.”

XXXIV.

“Waban, fear not; my pale-faced brethren are
All Christians, or at least would such be thought;
And dost thou think that Beelzebub, how fair
Soe’er his speech may be, could move them aught
Against their brother? It is better far,--
If it be true such vengeance he have sought,--
Than that he lurk among the bushes here,
To fill our days with care and nights with fear.

XXXV.

“But, Waban, I have now a task for thee;--
Think not of him; but let thy mind be here.
Whilst snows o’erspread the earth and ice the sea,
I parted from my wife and children dear;
’Twas stormy night, the hunter sheltered me,
And gave me in his lodge abundant cheer;
Then tow’rd the rising sun for me he sped,
And saw the home from which the wanderer fled.

XXXVI.

“There too he saw his little children play,
And the white hand which gave the blanket red;
But now that gloomy time seems far away,
For much has happened, many a moon has sped;
The lodge is built, the garden smiling gay;--
Will the swift foot once more the forest thread,
And guide the children and the snow-white hand,
With watchful tendance, to this distant land?”

XXXVII.

Waban replied: “The nimble-foot will go;--
But a gaunt wolf may haunt the hunter’s way,
And he will whet his darts, and string his bow,
And gird his loins as for the battle fray;
The Priest of Chepian ne’er forgets a foe;--
His vengeance lasts until a bloody day
Doth feed the crows, or still a bloodier night
Gives the gaunt wolf a feast ere dawning light.”

XXXVIII.

“God is our trust!” our pious Founder said,
“Arm, and go forth confiding in his might;
So far as e’er an exile’s foot dare tread
The ground forbidden him, thy sachem white
Will go to meet thee; and when morn has shed
Five times from eastern skies her golden light,
Will wait thee and his wife and children dear,
Hidden in Salem woods till thou appear.”

XXXIX.

Our Founder then the brief epistle traced,
Entreating first that some kind Salem friend,
To aid his little Israel through the waste,
Would for a while two well-trained palfreys lend;
Then to his wife, with kind expression graced,
Did meet directions for her guidance send;
Called her from Egypt, bade her cheerly dare
The desert pass, and find her Canaan there.

XL.

The morrow dawned, and Waban stood prepared;
His knife well sharpened and his bow well strung--
He waited only till his chief declared
His purpose full; then on his mantle flung,
Girded his loins, his brawny arms he bared,
And lightly through the rattling thickets sprung;
And soon the thunderings of the partridge tell
Where bounds his distant foot from dell to dell.

CANTO SEVENTH.

[SCENES. Seekonk’s Mead--The Wilderness--Salem--The Wilderness--The Night at the Cavern--The New Home.]

Much Williams dreaded that dark priest, I ween,
Albeit he hid his fears from Waban’s eyes;
His threat’ning arrows and his savage mien
Would often now in midnight dreams arise;
And, rising, bring of blood a woful scene--
His Mary pale--his children’s wailing cries;
And he would start, and marvel how a dream,
Delirium’s thought, should so substantial seem.

II.

If in the lonely wilds, by evening dim,
That vengeful savage should the path waylay
Of all the dearest earth contained for him,
Those jewels of the heart, what power could stay
His thirst for blood--his fury wild and grim
As is the tiger’s bounding on his prey?
Oft came obtrusive this appalling thought--
He shook it off--still it returned unsought.

III.

Not long he brooks this torturing delay,
But soon tow’rd Salem through the forest goes,
Nor will the Muse go with him on his way,
And sing in horrid shades each night’s repose,
Until she, shuddering, mingle with her lay,
And seem herself to bear her hero’s woes;
Let it suffice that on the third day’s dawn,
He gazed from Salem woods on Salem town.

IV.

He saw the cottage he must tread no more,
And sighed that man should be so stern to man;
Two harnessed palfreys stood beside the door,
And by the windows busy movement ran;
Then did his eyes the village downs explore,
Ere yet the labors of the day began;
But all still slept, save where the watch-dog bayed,
Or lowed the kine and cropt the dewy glade.

V.

And many a field new traces of the plough,
And many a roof its recent structure showed,
And in the harbor many a sable prow,
Rocked by the billows, at her anchor rode;
And, ah! he saw (to him no temple now)
The lowly house where erst in prayer he bowed,
And strove to lead his little flock to Heaven;
His flock no more,--with strifes now sorely riven.

VI.

He turned his eyes again to that dear spot
Where, by the door, the waiting palfreys stood:
There, laden now, they bore what Mary thought
The tender exiles, in the lonely wood,
Would need or miss the most, and likewise aught
That would most cheer or comfort their abode;
With useful household wares, securely piled,
But cumbersome for journeying through the wild.

VII.

He saw red Waban take each palfrey’s rein,
And slowly walk the laden beasts before;
He saw his Mary, with her little train
Of blooming children, issue from the door;
He saw her loving neighbors them detain
The Almighty’s blessing on them to implore,
And heard the farewell hymn, a pensive strain
Of mingled voices as they trod the plain.

VIII.

Pleasant it was, and mournful was it too,
To see the matron leading by the hand,
From all their joys to toils and dangers new,
That innocent and happy infant band;
For, hand in hand, did they their way pursue,
With childish wonder, toward the distant land;--
As little witting of the ills that wait,
As that their labors were to found a State.

IX.

Soon Waban passed him where concealed he stood,
And slowly led his docile charge along;
Then Mary stept into the dusky wood,
Still guiding, as she came, the prattling throng;
No longer viewless he his darlings viewed,
But, wild with rapture, from the thicket sprung:
“Oh, father! father!” burst the children’s cry,
And Mary claspt him in her ecstacy.

X.

But short the transport--soon must they resume
The weary march, and from the dawning gray
Hour after hour, to pensive evening’s gloom,
Through the lone forest wend their devious way;
O’er river, vale, and steep, through brake and broom,
And rough ravine, with aching steps they stray;
The father’s arms oft bore the lovely weight,
Or on the palfrey’s back the weariest sate.

XI.

And thus they past o’er many a rapid flow,
Climbed many a hill--through many a valley wound,
While wary Waban moved before them slow,
And for their feet the smoothest pathway found;
River and fen and miry waste and low,
The floods had swollen to their utmost bound;
Unbridged by frost, no passage do they show,
And far about the anxious wanderers go.

XII.

The sun from middle skies now downward bent
His course, and for a while on lofty ground
They rested, and abroad their glances sent
Far o’er the sea of forest that embrowned
The landscape. The overarching firmament,
The woody waste enclaspt with azure round,
And yon bright sun, yon eagle soaring high,
And yon lone wigwam’s smoke, are all that cheer the eye.

XIII.

At times the eagle’s scream trills from on high,
At times the pecker taps the mouldering bough,
Or the far raven wakes her boding cry,--
All else is hushed the vast expanses through:
And, ah! they feel in the immensity
Of pathless wilds, around them and below,
As in mid-ocean feels some shipwrecked crew,
Borne wandering onward in the frail canoe.

XIV.

And something was there in red Waban’s mien,
Which all the morn had drawn our Founder’s eyes;
For still he spake not, and was often seen
To bend his ear, or start as with surprise;
And now he stood, and, through the thicket’s screen,
The shadowy prospect seemed to scrutinize,
Then paused, unmoving, till a far-off howl
Did, with long echoes, through the stillness roll.

XV.

It seemed a wolf’s, but Waban’s practised ear
Could well the language of the forest tell;
Again he paused, till from the distance drear,
A faint response in dying cadence fell;
Then spake in haste;--“Does not my sachem hear
The voice of vengeance in the breezes swell?
Come! Let us hasten to some friendly town,
For murder tracks us through the forest brown!

XVI.

“Comrade to comrade calls!--the demon’s priest
Is on our trail!”--No more the red man spoke;
And this in Narraganset’s tongue exprest,
To Mary nothing told, save as the look
And earnest gesture may have stirred her breast
With vague alarm.--But these she soon mistook
As native to him in his wonted mood,
And seemed confirmed as she our Founder viewed.

XVII.

He, in like speech, thus to his faithful guide:--
“Waban, be calm! wake not in bosoms frail
A groundless fear; the tokens may have lied;
Some other wolf may be upon our trail.”
“Waban was hunted,” quickly he replied,
“Far tow’rd the white man’s town through yonder vale;
When there, the priest oft in his pathway stept,
And watched the wigwam where the white hand slept.”

XVIII.

Sire Williams shuddered thus to realize
What he had hoped was but his fancy’s fear;
But yet he quelled each symptom of surprise,
And thus to Waban: “Brother, be your ear
Quick as the beaver’s, and your searching eyes
Like to the eagle’s, and, the foeman near,
Be your heart bolder than the panther’s, when
He slays the growling bear and drags him to his den.”

XIX.

They left the steep, and, o’er the woodland plain,
Passed with all speed the tender group could make;
They ford the rivers, and their course maintain
Through ancient groves, where, bare of broom and brake,
The lurking foe might scant concealment gain;
Waban still moved before, and nothing spake;
His rapid glance scanned every thicket near,
And when he paused he bent the listening ear.

XX.

Hour after hour the hunter thus did go,
His eyes still roving and his ears still spread;
His was a spectre’s glide;--but toiling slow,
The lagging group pursued with faltering tread.
At last he paused beneath a birchen bough,
Where the dense alders formed a barricade,
And there awaited them.--With anxious breast
Williams approached, and thus his guide addrest:

XXI.

“Sees not my brother that the shadows grow
Fast tow’rd the east, and that the forest brown
Soon hides the sun?--then whither does he go
To rest in safety till the morrow’s dawn.”
Waban replied, “O’er yonder distant brow,
Smokes in the vale Neponset’s peopled town;
Thy red friends there will thee in safety keep,
There may the white hand and the children sleep.”

XXII.

As thus he spake, across their pathway sped
The startled partridge on her whirring wings;
An arrow glanced--it grazed the hunter’s head,
And the shrill forest with the bowstring rings;
Red Waban’s eyes flash fire, and anger dread
Flames in his blood, and every muscle strings;
He stooped to mark where twanged that hostile bow,
Then sprang from tree to tree, to reach the foe.

XXIII.

But ere he gained the purposed point, or viewed
The fell assassin, the dry fagots’ crash,
The waving coppice, and re-echoing wood,
And sounding footfalls down the brakes that dash,
Told him how vainly he his foe pursued,
Or that pursuit were dangerously rash;
And turning slowly he retraced his track,
As his foiled leap the lion measures back.

XXIV.

The matron trembled, at the scene dismayed,
For she had marked that hostile arrow’s flight,
And Williams’ glance, and Waban’s mien betrayed
That instant peril did their fears excite;
And yet no frantic shrieks her acts degrade;
A mother’s cares did every thought invite;
And o’er the little scions of her blood
She stretched her arms’ frail fence, and trembling stood.

XXV.

Calmer in bearing but with equal dread,
The anxious father viewed the threatening harm;
And, under God, what was there now to aid,
Save his own firmness and red Waban’s arm?
Behind--before--a dreary forest spread;
Far was Neponset; here the dire alarm
Of lurking savage; whilst the gathering night
Still added horror to a dubious flight.

XXVI.

He paused a moment, and his means forlorn,
To guard the onward march, he thus arrayed:
The palfreys shielded by the burdens borne,
On either side the moving group, were led,
This by himself, that by his eldest born,
Whilst nimble Waban scoured the threatening shade,
And, keeping wary watch where’er he ran,
Now fenced their flanks, now pioneered their van.

XXVII.

Like as the eagle,--when, from airy rest
She wards her callow young with watchful eye,
And sees the thickets move, by footsteps prest
Within the precinct of her nursery,--
Wheels first on outstretched pinions round her nest,
Searching below, then darts into the sky
For far espial,--gathering every sound,--
And soars aloft or sails along the ground;

XXVIII.

So Waban watched and ran, while, moving slow,
The anxious father aids the group along.
In dreadful silence sleeps the forest now,
Hushed is the prattling of each infant’s tongue;
No sound is there, save that of footsteps low,
Or of the breeze that sighs the leaves among,
Or palfrey’s tramp--whose hoofs, with iron shod,
Now clink on rocks, now deaden on the sod.

XXIX.

The sun at last sunk in the western shade,
And the thick forest cast a darker frown,
And now they paused amid an open glade,
More than a bow-shot from the thickets brown;
Then Father Williams to the hunter said,
“Where! where! O Waban, is Neponset’s town?”
And Waban answered, “Full one-half a sleep
This march requires to bring us to its steep.”

XXX.

“Then here we rest, to take whate’er may come,”
Our Founder said, “and do you all prepare
To tread the realms that lie beyond the tomb;
There are no foes or persecutors there,
To drive the guiltless forth, and bid them roam
In savage wilds; yet do not quite despair;
When comes the foe,--and come he doubtless will,
Brother! we must be firm--if needful, we must kill!”

XXXI.

“Waban is firm,” the hunter said, and smote
His naked breast, and raised his stature high;
“Yet hear the red man still;--not far remote
Is Waban’s rock, where he is wont to lie
When the far-striding moose has tired his foot,
And night comes down, and tempests rule the sky;
There may we rest; the foe’s approach is hard
But by one pass, and that will Waban guard.”

XXXII.

The place they sought;--’twas down a rocky dell,
Where scarce the palfreys found a footing sure,
Where deeper darkness from the forest fell,
And thicker boscage did the pass immure;
At last, before them, like a citadel,
Rose a tall rock, whose frowning frontals lower
Over a narrow lea, with brambles dense
On either side like an impervious fence.

XXXIII.

“Here,” said the red man, (as he raised a mass
Of vines that clustered down the rock’s descent,)
“Here’s Waban’s cavern, here is ample space
For thee and thine; in this rude tenement
Ten hunters oft have found their biding place,
Nor in it felt themselves too closely pent;
Waban will now below the opening raise,
In yon dry fagots’ heap, the mounting blaze.”

XXXIV.

“Stay! stay!” said Williams, “wouldst thou lure the foe?
Wouldst start the flame to tell him where we sleep?”
The hunter smiled: “My Sachem does not know
How true the foe will to our footsteps keep;
He hears, perchance, e’en now our accents low,
Or marks us from some tree on yonder steep;
Waban will wake the fire; ’twill serve to show
His posture, numbers, and will aid our blow.”

XXXV.

Williams assented; and while Waban fired
The arid fagots, he the burdens took
From off the palfreys, that, o’erwrought and tired,
Now stretched their toil-worn limbs and stoutly shook
Their liberated frames, and fuller breath respired,
And quiet grazed the lea. Then to the rock
The father hastened with a blazing brand;
His wife and children, linking hand in hand,

XXXVI.

Followed his steps. It was a cavern rude,
Its floor a level rock, its vaulted roof
Of granite masses formed, whose arches stood
More firmly for the weight they propped aloof;--
And here and there upon the floor were strewed
Extinguished brands, which, with like signs, gave proof
That men had dwelt there;--then, through screening vines
Sire Williams glances out and marks where shines,

XXXVII.

Full on red Waban’s face, the mounting blaze.
Though half a bow-shot from the cavern he
Stands at the fire, yet its bright sheen displays
His hue and shape, and then could Williams see
How well the hunter judged thus far to raise
The burning pyre; no passage could there be
For hostile foot, save by that glittering flame,
Which well would light the arrow’s certain aim.

XXXVIII.

Such furniture, as for their strongest need
The wretched exiles had themselves supplied,
Was to the cave now brought, with bread to feed
The little children clustering by the side
Of their fond parents.--Then did thanks succeed
To God who deigned such comforts to provide,
And earnest prayers that His protecting might
Would shield them through the dangers of the night.

XXXIX.

With trembling haste a slight repast they took,
And to their several places then repaired;
The mother sate deep in the rocky nook
Beside her children, and their pallet shared;
Red Waban sate upon a jutting rock,
Hard by the cavern’s mouth, the pass to guard;
While at the entrance, Williams listening stood,
Screened by the vines, and every passage viewed.

XL.

Deep night came down o’er forest, vale and hill--
The dismal hootings of the darkling owl,
The melancholy notes of Whip-poor-will,
And the lone wolf’s far distant long-drawn howl,
Answered at times by panther screaming shrill,
Such hideous echoes through the forest roll,
That Mary shudders, and, from transient sleep,
The infants starting up for terror weep.

XLI.

But Williams listened with accustomed ear,
The dread of man alone disturbed his breast;
Hour after hour, unmarked by danger near,
The pass he watches for the savage priest,
And still, with eyes turned tow’rd the flame, doth hear
Whatever steps the rustling leaves molest;
And oft he thought that through the brake he saw
The waving fox-tail of the grim Pawaw.

XLII.

At last within the hollow forest rose
Strange sounds that were unmeaning to his ear;--
As if there human hands were breaking boughs
Green with the verdure of the new-born year;
Crash follows crash.--“Are these approaching foes?
Do one or more their march thus pioneer?”
No answer Waban made, but seemed to shrink
Among the vines along the rock’s dark brink.

XLIII.

A moment more, and, bounding o’er the hedge,
A monster trotted tow’rd the mounting flame;
Then turned and bayed;--’twere doubtful to allege
Dog, fox, or wolf, his aspect best became;
Still did he howl, with still increasing rage;
And Waban rose and gave his arrow aim,
But ere its flight, a whistled signal rang;
The hybrid turned, and to the forest sprang.

XLIV.

“The fell Pawaw! his dog!” red Waban cried,
In tone suppressed, and hid himself again;
And Williams feared he had too much relied
Upon the courage of that dusky man;
He took the hatchet from the hunter’s side,
And dropt the feebler bludgeon from his span;
“Thy sachem,” said he, “will himself essay
To aid his warrior in the approaching fray.”

XLV.

“’Tis good!” said Waban, “so red sachems do--
But there! behold! behold! They come! They come!”
And Williams looked, and there, the thickets through,
Half in the light, half in the changeful gloom,
The forest boughs seemed moving out to view,
Branch heaped on branch, a weight most cumbersome
For human feet, yet human feet, he knew,
That burden bore, and with it dangers new.

XLVI.

Straight to the blaze they moved, and, dashing down
The leafy branches on the mounting flame,
Put out the light, and smoke and shadow brown,
In total darkness, all the glade o’ercame;
The mother shrieked; the father, with a groan,
Heard the wild cry, and stayed her sinking frame;
And both now felt that, with that smothered ray,
The last faint trembling hope had died away.

XLVII.

A fearful growl, close to the cavern’s vent,
First broke the thrall of horror and surprise;
And, by the gleam the smouldering embers sent,
That canine hybrid, shooting from his eyes
A baleful glare, crouched seemingly intent
On the scared infants as his famine’s prize;
The father drove the hatchet to his brains,
One yell he gave, and writhed in dying pains.

XLVIII.

Seeking the cavern’s mouth along the rock,
Some groping hand the vine’s thick foliage stirred;
“Where art thou Waban!” and the war-whoop broke;
Palsied with fear the trembling mother heard;
“Where art thou, Waban!” and, with horrid look,
A giant savage through the foliage stared;
But, at that moment, from his rocky mound
Twanged Waban’s bow with sudden sharpest sound.

XLIX.

Back reeled the savage with a dismal howl,
And on the earth like stricken bullock fell.
But still new terrors filled the father’s soul;
He heard another and more fearful yell;
Across the glade a new assailant stole;
The blaze reviving showed his movements well;
And Williams sprang his warrior to sustain,
Just as he strained the yielding bow again.

L.

But as he drew the arrow to the head,
The cord snapt short; he dashed the weapon down,
And leaping from the rock upon the glade,
With glittering scalping-knife and haughty frown,
Before the assailant stood, who paused, surveyed,--
Measuring the hunter’s height from heel to crown,--
Then, swift as thought, the vengeful hatchet sent;
At Waban’s head the well-aimed weapon went.

LI.

But well the wary hunter knew his foe
And read his murderous purpose in his eye;
He marked the coming steel, and, bending low,
Let it pass on and cleave the air on high;
Behind him rings the cliff with shivering blow,
And far around its scattered atoms fly;
Then with wild yells they wave the scalping-knife,
Together rush, and thrust and strike for life.

LII.

O! ’twas a fearful scene--a moment dire;
For on the issue of that contest lay
The lives of infants, mother, and of sire,
And the fair fame that crowns a distant day.
Soon closed the champions by the glimmering fire,
Limbs locked in limbs in terrible affray;
They writhe--they wrench--they stagger to and fro,
Hands grasping hands that aim the fatal blow.

LIII.

Now struggling by the flames they past from sight,
For Williams lingered yet to guard the cave;
And there, enveloped in a deeper night,
With fiercer fury did the contest rave;--
The blow, the wrench, the pantings of the fight,
The crash of branches and of thickets gave
A dreadful note of every effort made,
Where life sought life within that shuddering shade.

LIV.

The mother sank beside the father, pale
And scared; the children her affright partook;
At times they raised the sympathetic wail;
At times with breathless terror mutely shook.
Williams peered out along the kindling vale;
No sign of other foe there met his look;
Then with a word that quick return presaged,
He rushed tow’rd where the doubtful contest raged.

LV.

He passed the flame and paused--for on his ear
There came, with one loud crash, a heavy sound;
He listens still; and silence, sudden, drear,
Reigns o’er the glade, and through the gloom profound.
Who is the victim? Evil-boding fear
Tells him that Waban gasps upon the ground;
One bubbling groan, as if the life-blood gushed;
A shuddering struggle then--and all was hushed.

LVI.

In dire suspense the anxious father stood,
Yet did he still unmanly terrors quell;
His hand, yet innocent of human blood,
Now grasped the axe to meet the victor fell;
When from beneath the arches of the wood,
Rang the far-trembling, death-announcing yell,
So like a demon’s issuing from his pit--
Who but that savage could the sound emit?

LVII.

Then moving slowly in the gloomy wood,
Doubtful and darkling through the ghostly shade,
A form approached, and as it onward trod,
Appeared distinct upon the open glade;
’Twas Waban!--Waban bathed in hostile blood;
And by the lock he held a trunkless head.
He stooped beside the mounting blaze to shew,
Still more distinct, his trophy to the view.

LVIII.

With lips still quivering, and with eyes unglazed,
The reeking fragment seemed as living still;
Fierce on the horrid thing the victor gazed,
The battle’s wrath did still his bosom fill;
His eyes looked fire, another yell he raised,
That rang rebellowing from hill to hill;
Then, by the long dark lock swung from the ground,
He whirled on high the ghastly ball around.

LIX.

Around--around--still gathering force it went;
Still on his sinews strained the whirling head,
Till cleaving from the skull the scalp was rent,
And through the air the ponderous body sped;
Deep in the hollow woods its force was spent,
Thrice bounding from the ground, then falling dead;--
He turned and spoke: “No more the babes shall weep!
The grim Pawaw now sleeps! and Waban now can sleep!”

LX.

They passed the turf, as they the cavern sought,
Where fell the body of the earliest slain;--
Said Waban, as he paused beside the spot,
“The black Priest’s comrade never wakes again;”
Then seized the body roughly by the foot,
And dragged it, bleeding yet, along the plain
Straight to the rocky steep, and o’er it dashed;
It dropped in night; re-echoing thickets crashed.

LXI.

Then the rude victor washed the stains away,
Cast him on earth, and soon deep slumber showed
How lightly in his rugged bosom lay
The horrid memory of that scene of blood;--
But Williams watched until the dawning gray,
And Mary’s fitful sleep the scenes renewed,
While the young dreamers in her circling arms,
Oft shrieked and sobbed in slumber’s vain alarms.

LXII.

The morning dawns, and they their march resume;
No perils now annoy their toilsome way;
The night came down, and with its sober gloom
Brought quiet sleep until the morning’s ray;
Again they rose, and gained their joyous home
On Seekonk’s marge, just at the close of day;
And Him they blessed, who had in safety led
Them through dire perils, to their humble shed.

CANTO EIGHTH.

[SCENE. The New Home in Seekonk’s Mead.]

Through Seekonk’s groves the morning sun once more
Flames in his glory. Waving verdant gold,
The boundless forest stands. Wild songsters pour,
From every dewy glade and tufted wold,
The melody of joy. From shore to shore
The tranquil waters dream, and soul-like hold
A mirrored world below of softest hue,
With underhanging vault of cloudless blue.

II.

And Williams issued from his humble cot,
Not as of late in solitary mood,
With cheerless heart and ill-foreboding thought,
But with light step and breast of quietude;
And by him came the partner of his lot,
And their young children, with blithe interlude
Of prattling speech, softening the graver talk
Of the fond parents in their morning walk.

III.

In sooth his buoyant spirits seemed to spread
O’er all about him their enlivening flush;
Ne’er was the grass so verdant on the glade,
Ne’er did the fountain sparkle with such gush;
Ne’er had the stream such lovely music made,
Ne’er sang so blithe the robin on the bush;
The woodland flowers far brighter hues displayed,
More sunny was the lawn, more dark the shade.

IV.

They walked and talked; he told his trials o’er;
And often Mary brushed aside the tear,
And oft they joined to thank kind Heaven once more,
That thus his sufferings were rewarded here;
Then they would sit beneath the fountain’s bower,
And woo the breeze, or smiling bend the ear
To childly mirth, which, in its silver tone,
Soothed the rude wilds with music erst unknown.

V.

And all was happiness,--security
In blest seclusion. The rude storm seemed past,
The bow of promise spanned their life’s new sky;
No threatening cloud their prospects overcast,--
No shadow lowered; but Heaven with gracious eye
Looked smiling down and blest their toils at last.
Their Salem friends to join them soon will try,--
That they’re not here is all that brings a sigh.

VI.

Thus for a time did they anticipate
The bliss which Heaven for pilgrims has in store,
When their freed souls review their former state,
And bygone pains enhance their joys the more;
But yet one lingering fear of frowning fate,
Our Founder’s bosom lightly brooded o’er--
No Indian throng, as promised by the seer,
Had bid them welcome with Whatcheer! Whatcheer!

VII.

But let it pass;--perchance it was a dream;
His thoughts seemed wandering or disturbed at best,
When stood or seemed to stand, in doubtful gleam,
That form scarce earthly, and his ears addrest;--
Ay, let it pass--for ill would it beseem
So staid a man to be at all deprest
By visionary fears or superstitious dread,
Whilst Heaven is showering mercies on his head.

VIII.

“Waban,” he said, “a generous feast prepare,
We can be cheerful, and yet not be mad;
The good man’s smiles may be a praise or prayer;
The wicked only should be very sad.
God feeds the birds, my Mary, in the air,--
Hear how they thank Him with their voices glad.
The heart of man should nearer kindred own,
Joy in his smiles and sorrow in his frown.”

IX.

Then forth fared Waban to the winding shore,
And quickly laid its shelly treasure bare,
Nor failed the woody dingles to explore,
And trap the partridge or the nimble hare;
And soon beneath a beech, beside the door,
On marshalled stones the blazing fagots are;
And when with heat the pristine oven glows,
Waban his tribute gives, and covers close.

X.

Meanwhile our Founder went from place to place,
And did each plan of village grandeur name;
This rising mound the future church should grace,
Yon little dell the village school should claim;
That sloping lawn the council hall should base,
Where freemen’s voices should the law proclaim,
And ne’er to bigot yield the civil rod,
But save the Church by leaving her to God.

XI.

So pass the hours, till westward through the skies
The sun begins to turn, and, savory grown,
From Waban’s ready feast the vapors rise;
The group beneath the beech then sit them down;
“Thou kind and generous man,” our Founder cries,
“Our brave defender! thy complexion brown
Bars not thy presence;--sit thou at the board,--
Of these bright lands God made thy kind the lord.

XII.

“My valliant warrior like a Keenomp fought,
And Chepian’s priest before his valor fell!
But his white Sachem in the battle wrought
Too little for a chief he loves so well.”
“The dog--the dog! that had the children caught,”
Exclaimed the red man, “does his valor tell;
A manit-dog he was, for well he knew
Whate’er the priest of Chepian bade him do.

XIII.

“The priest of Chepian and his comrade came
To fight the white man and his warrior brave;
The fox-eared demon sought for other game,
And went to filch it from the rocky cave;
My Sachem white a manittoo o’ercame,
To demon dark a fatal wound he gave;
Brave is my Sachem, for he nobly slew
What Waban dreaded most,--that fearful manittoo!”

XIV.

“Brother,” said Williams, “under Power Divine,
That shields the just man in dark peril’s hour,
Thine was the victory, and the glory thine
To quell Apollyon’s priest--a demon’s power!
Henceforth the demon must his lands resign,
And thou must be Mooshausick’s Sagamore,
The right of conquest will do very well,
When Hell assails us, and we conquer Hell.

XV.

“But might the choice of either blameless go,
Mary! these fruits of suffering and of toils,
And racking cares through fourteen weeks of woe,
I’d prize far higher than the reeking spoils
Of all the nations laid by Cæsar low,
When he, the victor in Rome’s civil broils,
Sate, like the Jove he worshipped, o’er a world
Whose crowns were offered, and whose incense curled.

XVI.

“And there is cause, I trow.--Who cannot see
That a dark cloud o’er our New England lowers?
The tender conscience struggles to be free;
The tyrant struggles, and retains his powers.
O, whither shall the hapless victims flee,
Where be their shelter when the tempest roars?
May it be here--may it be Heaven’s decree,
To make its builder of a worm like me.”

XVII.

While thus he spake, the neighboring thickets shook,
And from them issued one of mien austere;
And Williams knew a Plymouth elder’s look,
In doctrines stern--in practice most severe;
His gait was slow, and loath he seemed to brook
Such signs of comfort and of earthly cheer;
And up he came, they scarce could reason why,
Like a dark cloud along a cheerful sky.

XVIII.

The gloom that gathered o’er our Father’s breast,
He strove with heavy effort to dispel;
“Elder!” he said, “thou art an honored guest;
To see our ancient friends should please us well;
Thy journey long must give the banquet zest;
Come and partake our sylvan meal, and tell
The while what word or tidings thou mayst bear
From Plymouth’s rulers and our brethren there.”

XIX.

“Williams,” he said, “I need no food of thine--
The wilds I thread not without store my own;
But I would fain beneath that roof recline
To-night, and rest my limbs till morn be shown;--
And there this eve some reasoning, I opine,
(For all may err,) a weighty theme upon,
May not be deemed amiss.--Perchance a light
Will on thee break and set thy feet aright.”

XX.

“Elder, whatever themes,” our Founder said,
“My scant attainments fit me to essay,
Shall not avoidance have from any dread
That thy strict logic may my faults betray;
That ‘all may err,’ means that our friends have strayed,
And not that we have wandered from the way;
It is a maxim to perversion grown,
And points to others’ faults to hide our own.

XXI.

“But as my Plymouth visitor requests,
We’ll seek that cottage; I have called it mine,
These hands have built it; but all friendly guests
May call it theirs, and, Elder, it is thine
While thou sojournest here. Whoever rests
Beneath its roof may not expect a fine,
A dungeon, scourge, or even banishment,
For heresy avowed, or doubted sentiment.”

XXII.

They sought the cottage.--Its apartments rude,
But still a shelter from the cold and heat,
A cheerful fire and fur-clad settles shewed,
And other comforts, simple, plain, and neat.
The Elder paused, and all the mansion viewed,
Then, with a long-drawn sigh, he took his seat,
And briefly added--“Thou hast labored, friend,
Hard--very hard! I hope for worthy end.”

XXIII.

He paused again, then solemnly began
A sad relation of the Church’s state;
O’er many a schism and false doctrine ran,
That had obtruded on its peace of late;
But most alarming was our Founder’s plan,
To leave things sacred to the free debate;
To make faith bow to erring reason’s shrine,
And mortal man a judge of creeds divine.

XXIV.

“This simple truth no Christian man denies,”
He thus continued, “that the natural mind
Is prone to evil as the sparks to rise,
And to the good is obstinately blind;
Who then sees not, that looks with wisdom’s eyes,
That God’s elect should rule the human kind?
The good should govern, and the bad submit,
And saints alone are for dominion fit?”

XXV.

Our Founder answered, “Art thou from the pit?
Get thee behind me, if such thoughts be thine;
Did Christ his gospel to the world commit,
That his meek followers might in purple shine?
He spurned the foul temptation, it is writ,
And the Great Tempter felt his power divine;
Art thou far wiser than thy Master grown,
And spurn’st a heavenly for an earthly crown?”

XXVI.

“Nay--nay, friend Williams!” the grave elder cried,
“It is that crown of glory to secure
That the True Church should for her saints provide
The shield of law ’gainst heresy impure;
Quell every schism--crush the towering pride
Of the dark Tempter, ere his reign is sure;
For many finds he who are servants meet
To sow for him the tares among the wheat.

XXVII.

“Men ever busy, searching for the new,
Scanning our creed as if it doubtful were,
These would we hold perforce our doctrines to,
And the vain labor to convert them spare;
God may in time their restless souls renew,
And give them of his grace a saving share;--
Meanwhile our Church their errors would restrain,
And to her creed their wayward minds enchain.”

XXVIII.

“A mortal thou!” our Founder here replied,
“Yet judge of conscience,--searcher of the heart
Thou, the elect?--but if it be denied,
How wilt thou prove it, or its proofs impart?
God gave to man that bright angelic guide,
A reasoning soul, his being’s better part;--
He gave her freedom; but thou wouldst confine
And cramp her action to that creed of thine.

XXIX.

“Who binds the soul extends the reign of hell;
She’s formed to err, but, erring, truth to find;
Pity her wanderings, but, O never quell
The bold aspirings of this angel blind!
God is her strength within, and bids her spell,
By outward promptings, the eternal Mind:
Long may she wander still in quest of light,
But day will dawn at last upon a polar night.”

XXX.

“A dangerous tenet that!” the Elder said;
“A fallen angel doubtless she may be;
If truth she find by natural reason’s aid,
It ever leads her to some heresy;
Indeed, the truth too often is betrayed
To minds ill-fitted for inquiry free;
From bad to worse, from worse to worst we go,
And end our being in eternal woe.

XXXI.

“Nature’s own truths do oft the mind mislead;
From partial glimpses men will judge the whole;
And it were better if our Church’s creed
Were learning’s object and its utmost goal;
Reason would then no higher purpose need,
Than, by it, point the yet erratic soul
To her high hope and everlasting rest!”
Williams this heard, and spake with kindling breast:

XXXII.

“God gave man reason, that his soul might be
Free as his glance that spans the universe;
All things around him prompt inquiry free,
All do his reason to research coerce;
The Heavens, the Earth, the many breeding sea,
All have their shapes and qualities to nurse
The soul’s aspirings, and, from blooming youth
To ripe old age, provoke the quest of truth.

XXXIII.

“Truth! I would know thee wert thou e’er so bad,
Bad as thy persecutors deem or fear,
Wert thou in more than Gorgon terrors clad,
Thy glance a death to every feeling dear;
Taught thou that God a demon’s passions had,
That Earth is Hell, and that the damned dwell here,
And death the end of all;--still would I know
The total Curse--the sum of being’s woe.

XXXIV.

“Yet fear not this, for each new truth reveals
Of God a nearer and a brighter view;
Anticipation lags behind, and feels
How mean her thought at each discovery new;
Her stars were stones fired in revolving wheels--
Truth! thine are worlds self-moved the boundless through
Who checks man’s Reason in her heavenward flight,
Would shroud, O God! thy glorious works in night!

XXXV.

“Whence didst thou learn that the Almighty’s plan
Required thy wisdom to protect and save,
That, when he sent his Gospel down to man,
Thou to defend it must the soul enslave,
Enthrone deceit, and place beneath its ban
The honest heart, that dares its sentence brave?
Full well I trow the Prince of Darkness fits
The blood of martyrs shed by hypocrites.

XXXVI.

“Hearken for once; just as the conscience pure
Is here God’s presence to my wayward will--
Not to constrain it, but to kindly lure
It on by duty’s path, from every ill;
So to the State the Christian Church, secure
From human thrall, should be a conscience, still
Ne’er to constrain, save by that heavenly light
Which bares the Wrong, and maketh plain the Right.”

XXXVII.

“No more, friend Williams,” said the Elder here,
“No more will we on this grave theme delay;
My hopes were high, and ’twas an object dear
To shed some light on thy benighted way;
But still wilt thou with sinful purpose steer
Thy little bark against the tempest’s sway;
On mayst thou go--I cannot say God speed!
But would thy object were some better deed.

XXXVIII.

“Couldst thou renounce thy purpose here to base
A State where heretics may refuge find,
I do not doubt that to some little grace
The Plymouth rulers would be well inclined;
But as it is, perhaps some other place,
Still more remote, may better suit thy mind;
But till the morn as may a guest befit,
My message hither do I pretermit.”

XXXIX.

Our Founder pondered on the Elder’s word;
What could this dark portentous message be,
With its delivery until morn deferred,
Lest it should mar night’s hospitality.
The wrath of Plymouth he had not incurred,
He with her Winslow was in amity;
Then what strange message had the Elder borne,
That utterance sought, and yet was hushed till morn!

XL.

This cause, mysterious, darkling, undefined,
Did by degrees each cheerful thought efface,
And poured portentous glooms along his mind,
That seemed reflected by each friendly face;
The matron sighed, and childhood disinclined
To mirth or sport, sought slumber’s soft embrace,
And soon the gathered night did all dispose,
To shun their boding thoughts in dull repose.

XLI.

Morn comes again;--the inmates of the cot
Rise from scant slumber, and their guest they greet;
“Williams,” he said, “it is my thankless lot,
Thee with no pleasant message now to meet;
Nor hath our Winslow in his charge forgot
(For his behest I bear and words repeat)
His former friendship, but right loth is he
To vex his neighbors by obliging thee.

XLII.

“In short, thou art on Plymouth’s own domain;
Beyond the Seekonk is the forest free,--
This must thou leave, but there thou mayst maintain
Thy State unharmed, and still our neighbor be;
Fain had I spared thee this deep searching pain,
By showing thee thy dangerous heresy;
It may not be; hence, therefore, must thou speed;
The Narragansets may protect thy creed.”

XLIII.

To breathless statues turned the listeners stood,
Silent as marble and as cold and pale;
With vacant gaze our Sire the Elder viewed,
O’erwhelmed, confounded by this sudden bale;
As when some swain, deep in the sheltering wood,
Ere he has seen the tempest on the gale,
Marks the bright flash; the smitten senses reel;
He stands confounded ere he learns to feel.

XLIV.

At length reviving from the stunning shock,
His thoughts returning in a broken train,
Our Founder thus the speechless stupor broke:--
“I to my ancient friend may yet explain;
Just is my title here; the lands I took
Are part of Massasoit’s wide domain,
And fairly purchased; mine they dearly are;
Make this but known, and Plymouth must forbear.”

XLV.

“And didst thou think,” the Elder cried, “to win
Of Pagan chief a title here secure?
Why not derive it from that man of sin
At papal Rome,--the Antichrist impure?
Our Church of Truth, against the Heathen thin,
Asserts her Canaan, and will make it sure.
Thy purchase feigned was by the Prophet shown
To Dudley, and by him to us made known.”

XLVI.

“My purchase feigned!” our Founder quickly cried--
“God made that Pagan, and to Him He gave
Breath of this air, drink from yon crystal tide,
Food from these forest lawns and yonder wave:
Yea, He ordained this region, far and wide,
To be his home in life, in death his grave.
Is thy claim better? Canst thou trace thy right
From one superior to the God of might?”

XLVII.

The Elder answered: “Thinkest thou this land
For demons foul and their red votaries made?
Did not Jehovah, with his own right hand,
Tempest for Israel when the Heathen fled?
Does Plymouth’s Church less in his favor stand?
Or spares he devils for the savage red?
As to our title, then, we trace it thus:
God gave James Stuart this, and James gave us.”

XLVIII.

“God gave James Stuart this!” our Founder cried,
Up-starting from his seat as he began,
“God gave James Stuart this!”--a choking tide
Of kindling feeling through his bosom ran,
To which his better part free speech denied,
Since all the Christian strove against the man,
And strove not all in vain;--yet, bursting forth,
His soul came big with grief that stifled half her wrath.

XLIX.

“God gave James Stuart this!--I marvel when!
Fain would I see the deed Omniscience wrote;
Elder! there are commandments counting ten,
Which Great Jehovah upon Sinai taught;
Has He of late exempted Plymouth’s men--
Reversed his justice and made sin no fault?
Taught them to covet of their neighbor’s store,
And licensed robbery of the weak and poor?