Williams," it said, "I come on message here,
Of moment great to this blind age unknown,
Thou must not dally, or the tempest fear,
But fly at morn into the forest drear.

XXIV.

"Thou art to voyage an unexplored flood;

No chart is there thy lonely bark to steer;
Beneath her rocks, around her tempests rude,
And persecution's billows in her rear,
Shall shake thy soul till it is near subdued—

But when the welcome of Whatcheer! Whatcheer!!
Shall greet thine ears from Indian multitude,
Cast thou thine Anchor there, and trust in God."

XXV.

The stranger ceased, and gently past away,

Though Williams kindly strove him to detain,
"The night was dark, and wild the tempest's sway
And lone the desert," but 'twas all in vain-
He only in soft accents seemed to say,

"Williams perchance I shall behold again Thee when thou seest a more auspicious day, Where joys man's faith in Nature's liberty."

XXVI.

The stranger past, and Williams by the fire,
Long mused on this mysterious event,
Was it some seraph from the Heavenly sphere,
Come down to urge and hallow his intent ?-
To counsel-kindle-and his breast inspire
With words fired with prophetic sentiment?
Or had he dreamed-and had his fancy clear,
Drawn in his mind the vision of this seer?

XXVII.

'Twas strange! Mysterious!-Yet if dream it were, 'Twas such as prophets old had often known, When Jacob saw the Heaven-ascending stair,

And Joseph hoarded for the dearth foreshown,

Ah! did the Omniscient hear his earnest prayer,
And did e'en Heaven the glorious project own,
Then would he by the morrow's light repair,
The voice obeying, to the wilds afar.

XXVIII.

He sought for rest; but little did delight,

Of slumber calm our Father then I trow;

Still mused he on the toils of morrow's flight,
Through unknown wilderness and wastes of snow;
How to elude the persecutor's sight,

Or shun the following quest of eager foe,
Taxed his invention with no labor light-
And long, and slow, and lagging past the night.

XXIX.

And if by fits came intervening sleep,

Through deserts wild and rugged roved his soul,
Here rose the rock-there sunk the headlong steep,
And fiercely round him seemed the storm to howl;
Whilst from the sheltered glen his foes would peep,
With taunts and jeers, and with revilings foul,
Scoff at his efforts, and their clamors deep,
Came mingled with that awful tempest's sweep.

XXX.

Morn came at last; and by the dawning gray,
Our founder rose his secret flight to take;
His wife and infant still in slumber lay-

Oh! shall he now that blissful slumber break?
Yes! he is one who deems that trials may,

Within the mind its mightier powers awake,
And that the storms, which gloom the pilgrim's way,
Prepare the soul for her eternal day.

XXXI.

"Mary!" (she woke) "prepare my travelling gear,

My pocket compass and my raiment strong,

My flint and steel to yield the needful fire-
Food for a week if that be not too long;

My hatchet too-its service I require,
To clip my fuel desert wilds among ;
With these I go to found in forests drear,
A State where none shall persecution fear."

XXXII.

"What! goest thou Roger in this chilling storm?
Wait! wait at least until its rage is o'er-
Its wrath will bar e'en persecution's arm

From thee and me until it fails to roar-
Oh! what protecting hand will shield from harm
Thee by dark night, and where the friendly door
To give thee shelter from the dire alarm

Of hungry wolves, and beasts in human form."

XXXIII.

"Cease, cease, my Mary, thou dost e'en complain That Heaven does kindly interpose to save

Does wing this tempest's fury to restrain

The quest of foes, and prompts my soul to brave The desert's perils, that I may maintain

The conscience free, 'gainst those who would enslaveWait till the storm shall cease to sweep the plain, And we are doomed to cross yon heaving main.”

XXXIV.

No more he said, for she in silence went

From place to place until her task was o'er;
Williams, the whilst, the fleeting moments spent,
To scrawl a message to delay the more-
Aye to beguile the beagles on the scent,

Till he had gained the distant wilds secure—
And hope, perchance, still vain illusions lent,
Friendship might plead, and bigotry relent.

XXXV.

Then he to Heaven his weeping spouse commends-
Implores its blessings on his purpose bold;
Salem still sleeps, and forth our founder wends

To breast the driving storm and chilling cold;

His wife remains, and from the window sends

A glance that all her heaving bosom told— Dimly she marks him as his course he bends

O'er the white fields, and to'ard the woods extends.

XXXVI.

To show him parting, to the light she rears

His child unconscious yet of human wo, And oft its guileless silver voice she hears,

"Oh! Where goes father through the driving snow." Deeply her bosom at its accents stirs,

"He does my child to the wild red men go, To seek protection from hard brethren here, For thee and me and all to him that's dear."

XXXVII.

So forth he ventured-even like the dove

Which earliest left the angel guarded ark ; On weary pinions hovered she above

The vast of waters, heaving wild and dark, Over waste realms of death, whilst still she strove Some peak emergent from the flood to mark, Where she might rest above the billows' sweep, And build a stormy home 'mid that unquiet deep.

XXXVIII.

In boundless forests now our founder trod,

And South-west far his doubtful course he took ; The lofty pines and cedars round him nod

Loud roars the tempest through the leafless oak;
Deep lies the snow upon the frozen sod,

And still the storms descending torrents choke
The Heavens above; and only fancy could,
So dim the view, conceive the solitude

XXXIX.

Of the wide forests that before him lay:

His ever steady onward pace alone

Told that from home he lengthened yet his way,

Whilst the like forms-the same drear hollow moan,

Seemed lingering around him yet to stay,
And every step of progress to disown;
As with all sail the bark the current may
Labor against, whilst still its downward sway

XL.

Impedes her course, and makes all labor vain.
So to our father seemed his journeying now;
Yet still he toiled-and still did he sustain

The same firm spirit.-Think ye he would bow,
Or yield to sufferings of corporeal pain,

Whom God had summoned from the bigot's slough To plant Religious Freedom, and maintain Her standard firm on fair Mooshausick's plain !

XLI.

Above his head the branches writhe and bend,

Or in the mingled wreck their ruin flies— The storm redoubles, and the whirlwinds blend The rising snow-drift with descending skies; And oft the crags a friendly shelter lend

His breathless bosom, and his sightless eyes; But, when the transient gust its fury spends, He through the storm again upon his journey wends.

XLII.

Still truly does his course the magnet keep—
No toils fatigue him, and no fears appal;
Oft turns he at the glimpse of swampy deep,
Or thicket dense, or crag abrupt and tall,
Or backward treads to shun the headlong steep,
Or pass above the tumbling waterfall;

Yet still he joys whene'er the torrent's leap,

Or crag abrupt, or thicket dense, or swamp's far sweep

XLIII.

Assures him progress,-From gray morn till noon-
Hour after hour-from that drear noon until

The evening's gathering darkness had begun
To clothe with deeper glooms the vale and hill,