XXXV. To show him parting, to the light she rears. "O! where is father going in the snow?" XXXVI. even like the dove So forth he ventured; The world of waters heaving wild and dark XXXVII. The boundless forests now our Founder trod, And still the storm's descending torrents choke conceive the solitude XXXVIII. Of the wide forests that before him lay: His ever steady onward pace alone Told that from home he lengthened yet his way, While the same forms the same drear hollow moan, Seemed ever round him lingering to stay, And every step of progress to disown; XXXIX. Above his head the branches writhe and bend, His breathless bosom, and his sightless eyes; XL. Still truly does his course the magnet keep — Or thicket dense, or crag abrupt and tall, Or pass above the tumbling waterfall; Yet still rejoices when the torrent's leap, Or crag abrupt, or thicket dense, or swamp's far sweep Assures him progress. XLI. 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, Sire Williams journeyed in the forest lone; And then night's thickening shades began to fill His soul with doubt for shelter he had none And all the outstretched waste was clad with one XLII. Vast mantle hoar. And he began to hear, That in the very glen they seemed to prowl Where now he, wearied, paused and then his ear Started to note some shaggy monster's growl, That from his snow-clad rocky den did peer, Shrunk with gaunt famine in that tempest drear, XLIII. And scenting human blood:-yea, and so nigh, XLIV. Wayworn he stood — and fast that stormy night XLV. Through the white billows thither did he wade, Then on the snow with oft repeated tread Hardened a flooring for his night's abode ; All there was calm, for the thick branches made XLVI. And now his hatchet, with resounding stroke, He smites the steel-the tinder brightly glows; XLVII. High branched the pines, and far the colonnade So far away from persecuting men, That he might break of honesty the bread, And blessing crave in his own way again; Of up-piled brush a seat and board he made, Spread his plain fare, and piously he prayed. XLVIII. "Father of mercies! thou the wanderer's guide XLIX. Our father ceased, and with keen relish he Refreshed his wearied frame in that lone dell; Ah! little can his far posterity Conceive the pleasures of that frugal meal; For naught he knew of lavish luxury, And toil and fast had done their office well; No costliest viands culled from land and sea Could half so sweet to pampered palates be. L. His hunger sated with his simple fare, He would, in weariness, have sought repose; But at the kindling blaze, heard wide and far, The howlings drear of forest monsters rose ; And, lured around him by the vivid glare, Came darkling with light foot along the snows Whole packs of wolves, from their far mountain lair, And the fierce cat, which scarce the blaze might scare. LI. Growling they come, and in dark groups they stand, Show the white fang, and roll the brightening eye; Till urged by famine's rage, the shaggy band Seemed even the flame's bright terrors to defy ; Then mid the group he hurled the blazing brand; Swift they disperse, and raise the scattered cry; But, rallying soon, back to the siege they came, And in their rage scarce faltered at the flame. LII. Yet Williams deemed that persecution took He on their proper solitude had broke, — |