The path to Boston too is somewhat blind,

Nor are my nerves now in their better moodMy soul has seldom at her lot repined,

But to obedience now she's disinclined.

XII.

A voyage to England and to start this night,
And brave the ocean at this season drear!-
"Twould scantly give the hardy tar delight,
Much less my consort and these pledges dear.—
Go tell the council that we are not quite

In health to bear a trial so severe,
And that if yield we, 'tis to brutal might,
And not to their kind feelings or their right."

XIII.

"Much do I grieve," the deacon then replied,
“To bear this answer to the governor—

"Twill show that thou hast Church and State defied,
And will I ween make not a little stir;
And should there be, by morrow's light espied,
A pinnace coming o'er the waters here,
With musketeers and Underhill their guide,
Be not surprised, but-Williams, quell thy pride!"

XIV.

This said, he turned, and hastily withdrew,
And all save Williams left behind in tears;
His wife still fair, now lost her blooming hue,
And nature yielded to her rising fears;
A giddy whirling past her senses through—
She almost heard the blazing musketeers—
And trembling-swooning-to her couch she flew,
And left the good man to his Bible true.

XV.

What could his firmness in this trying strait,

By Church and State with allied might assailed ?

Should he forego the project of his state,

And leave the fagot to his race entailed?→→

His hoped for home in wilderness of late,

At once beneath this blighting Siroc failed, And in his prospect, he beholds await

The ready ship and ocean desolate.

XVI.

"Oh! for a friend," still as he paced the floor,

He often sighed,
66 now in
my utmost need,
Whose counsels might some hidden way explore,
And give the glorious purpose to succeed;
But closed this night is every cottage door-
Yet there is one who is a friend indeed,
Forever present to the meek and poor—
I will thy counsels, mighty Lord, implore.

XVII.

Here dropt the friend of conscience on his knees, With hands and heart at once to Heaven upreared, And prayed the God who parted Egypt's seas,

Or in the bush to Amram's son appeared, To aid his project, and the age release,

From mental bonds by Church and State prepared, And e'en to give, that in this wilderness, Religious Freedom might his children bless.

XVIII.

Our Father ceased-The tempest roared around
With double fury at this moment drear,
The cottage trembled, and the very ground
Seemed e'en to feel the element's career;

With ice and snow the window panes were bound,
Nor through their dimness could earth's robe appear,

And oft by fits its way the tempest found,

Down the stone chimney, with a roaring sound.

XIX.

Like God's own voice it did to Williams seem,
He sate a space within himself retired,

Then seemed to rouse as from a transient dream,
Just as the lamp's last flickering ray expired;

Around the room was shed a quivering beam,

Cast from the brands that on the hearth were fired; The storm seemed lulled—and he began to deem, In neighboring woods he heard the Panther's scream.

XX.

"But what is this? a knocking at the doorSome way-lost wanderer seeks a shelter here; On this dark night amid the tempest roar,

Ah wretched man thy sufferings are severe !" He raised the bar that made the pass secure, And with the snow-gust from the darkness drear, A stranger entered whose large garments bore No doubtful tokens of the tempest's power.

Aged he seemed, and staff of length had he,
Which well a holy pilgrim had become,
But yet he sought with solemn dignity,

And easy step the centre of the room;

Then by the glancing light could Williams see,

His beard was long and did his breast o'ercome-
Age scored his temples—but still glancing free,
As from the ravage of a century,

XXII.

His eye beamed youth; and such a solemn mien,
Blent with such majesty and graceful air,

Our founder deemed he ne'er before had seen
In mortal form; and at the offered chair,
The stranger shook his head in mood serene,

And by the act revealed his long white hair,

As fell the fleecy covering from it clean,

Where down his shoulders hung its tresses sheen.

XXIII.

And when he spake his voice was low and clear,
But yet so deeply thrilling was its tone,

The listening soul seemed rapt into a sphere
Where angels speak in music of their own,

"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 ccased, 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.

66

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;