Chapter XVI

A secret joy o’er Father Williams’ breast
Stole like the fragrance of a balmy morn,
That breathes on sleep with fearful dreams opprest,
And wakes to its delights the wretch forlorn;
His toils and wanderings were not all unblest;
Some joy to others had his sufferings borne;--
But promised good brings doubt to the distrest,
And thus still dubious he his guide addrest: