Chapter LXXIV

Ah! how more lovely than the silence hushed,
That lists in horror for the foeman’s tread!
A tender joy our Father’s bosom flushed,--
The work was his that had these blessings spread;
The storm, that else had o’er the nation rushed,
Had by his sufferings and his toils been stayed;
And as he mused, his hand the Sachem pressed,
For like emotions swelled his rugged breast.