XLVIII.

Ne'er from himself had father Williams hid,

That his own strength had on that journey tired, But his hard lot all tenderness forbid,

And hearts scarce feminine in all required; But whilst he mused new apprehensions chid

Each softer thought, and dire alarms inspired; Still Waban's words would on his mind intrude; "That Prophet's wrath was quenched alone by blood."

CANTO SEVENTH.

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 mid-night dreams arise;
And, rising, spread of blood a woful scene;-

His Mary pale-his children's wailing criesThen would he 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 riches earth contained for him, Those jewels of the heart, what power could stay His thirst of blood-his fury wild and grim As is the tiger's, bounding on his preyOft came obtruding this annoying thoughtHe shook it off-still it returned unsought.

III.

Not long he brooks this torturing delay,

But soon tow'rd Salem through lone forest goes;

Nor will the Muse now linger 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 he in forests brown,

Upon the third day's dawn, saw that forbidden 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;

The hardy throngs not yet their toils began-
All there was sleep, save where the watch-dog bayed,
Or lowed the grazing herds along 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,

On the dark billows, at its anchor rode;
And, ah! he saw (to him no temple now,)

That roof where erst in solemn prayer he bowed,

And strove to lead his little flock to Heaven

That flock now torn with strife, their shepherd from them riven.

Again his

VI.

eyes turned to that dearer spot;

The palfreys laden with their burdens stood;

Such furniture they bore as Mary thought

The tender exiles now to thread the wood

Could ill dispense withal-nor was forgot

Aught that might comfort most their far abode,
And homely garnitures of household were
A cumberous burden for a journey far.

VII.

At length red Waban took each palfrey's rein,
And slowly strode the burden's beasts before;
Then saw he Mary, with her little train

Of blooming children, issue from the door;
Some loving neighbors seemed them to detain,
A space of Heaven a blessing to implore,
Then broke the farewell hymn, a pensive strain,
From mingled voices, as they trod the plain.

VIII.

And it was pleasant, and was mournful too,
To see the matron, leading by the hand,
From all their joys to toils and dangers new

In the drear wilderness, that infant band;
Hand clasped in hand did they their way pursue,
All blithe and innocent, to that far land-
Full as unconscious of the ills that wait,
As that their labors were to found a State.

IX.

But father Williams' patriarchal eyes

Saw in that infant group a people's germ ; The nursery of ages, whence should rise,

Religious freedom! thy defenders firm; And felt that God, o'er their young destinies,

With smiles benign would stretch a sheltering arm ; Yet when he thought what trials they must know, The father's bosom hove, and tears began to flow.

X.

Now Waban passed him where concealed he stood,
And slowly led the burdened beasts along,

And then his Mary glided 'neath the wood,
Still guiding by the hand the prattling throng;
No more in secret he the angels viewed,

But in a rapture from the thicket sprung

"O Father! Father!" the loved infants cried,

And Mary clasped his hand, and glancing heaven-ward sighed.

XI.

Spare! spare my numbers! for to whom belongs.

To sing of wo-attempered joy like this?

Or if to any, what but angel tongues,

Could fitly speak a glance of Heaven's own bliss, Shed on pure hearts still struggling with the wrongs Of persecution-lighting the abyss

Of sufferings else uncheered-'twas like the ray

Which paints the bow upon the tempest spray.

XII.

Short is 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 urge their devious way.
O'er river, vale and steep, through brake and broom,
And rough ravine, their tender feet did stray;
The father's arms oft bore the lovely weight,
Or on the palfrey's back the weariest wanderer sate.

XIII.

And thus they past o'er many a rapid flow,

Climb'd many a hill-through many a valley wound, Whilst wary Waban moved before them slow,

And for their path the smoothest passage found; The river deep-the miry fen and low,

The floods had swollen to their utmost bound; Unbridged by frost, no passage now they show, And by a devious route the anxious wanderers go.

XIV.

The sun from middle skies his course now bent,
And they a space paused on a rising ground;
And, as they respite took, their glance they sent
O'er the vast sea of forest that embrowned

Hill, dale and plain; the vaulted firmament—

And that brown waste clipt by the azure round,

And yon bright sun-yon eagle soaring high-
And yon far wigwam's smoke, are all that cheer their eye.

XV.

At times the eagle's scream trilled from on high

At times the pecker tapped the mouldering boughOr the far raven woke her boding cry—

All else was hushed the boundless prospect through ; And, ah! they felt in this immensity,

Whilst thus they scanned it from that lofty brow, As feels in ocean's mid some ship-wrecked crew, Wandering the shoreless vast borne in the frail canoe.