Did by degrees each cheerful thought efface,
And poured portentous glooms along his mind,
That seemed reflected by each friendly face;
The matron sighed, and childhood disinclined
To mirth or sport, sought slumber’s soft embrace,
And soon the gathered night did all dispose,
To shun their boding thoughts in dull repose.
XLI.
Morn comes again;--the inmates of the cot
Rise from scant slumber, and their guest they greet;
“Williams,” he said, “it is my thankless lot,
Thee with no pleasant message now to meet;
Nor hath our Winslow in his charge forgot
(For his behest I bear and words repeat)
His former friendship, but right loth is he
To vex his neighbors by obliging thee.
XLII.
“In short, thou art on Plymouth’s own domain;
Beyond the Seekonk is the forest free,--
This must thou leave, but there thou mayst maintain
Thy State unharmed, and still our neighbor be;
Fain had I spared thee this deep searching pain,
By showing thee thy dangerous heresy;
It may not be; hence, therefore, must thou speed;
The Narragansets may protect thy creed.”
XLIII.
To breathless statues turned the listeners stood,
Silent as marble and as cold and pale;
With vacant gaze our Sire the Elder viewed,
O’erwhelmed, confounded by this sudden bale;
As when some swain, deep in the sheltering wood,
Ere he has seen the tempest on the gale,
Marks the bright flash; the smitten senses reel;
He stands confounded ere he learns to feel.
XLIV.
At length reviving from the stunning shock,
His thoughts returning in a broken train,
Our Founder thus the speechless stupor broke:--
“I to my ancient friend may yet explain;
Just is my title here; the lands I took
Are part of Massasoit’s wide domain,
And fairly purchased; mine they dearly are;
Make this but known, and Plymouth must forbear.”
XLV.
“And didst thou think,” the Elder cried, “to win
Of Pagan chief a title here secure?
Why not derive it from that man of sin
At papal Rome,--the Antichrist impure?
Our Church of Truth, against the Heathen thin,
Asserts her Canaan, and will make it sure.
Thy purchase feigned was by the Prophet shown
To Dudley, and by him to us made known.”
XLVI.
“My purchase feigned!” our Founder quickly cried--
“God made that Pagan, and to Him He gave
Breath of this air, drink from yon crystal tide,
Food from these forest lawns and yonder wave:
Yea, He ordained this region, far and wide,
To be his home in life, in death his grave.
Is thy claim better? Canst thou trace thy right
From one superior to the God of might?”
XLVII.
The Elder answered: “Thinkest thou this land
For demons foul and their red votaries made?
Did not Jehovah, with his own right hand,
Tempest for Israel when the Heathen fled?
Does Plymouth’s Church less in his favor stand?
Or spares he devils for the savage red?
As to our title, then, we trace it thus:
God gave James Stuart this, and James gave us.”
XLVIII.
“God gave James Stuart this!” our Founder cried,
Up-starting from his seat as he began,
“God gave James Stuart this!”--a choking tide
Of kindling feeling through his bosom ran,
To which his better part free speech denied,
Since all the Christian strove against the man,
And strove not all in vain;--yet, bursting forth,
His soul came big with grief that stifled half her wrath.
XLIX.
“God gave James Stuart this!--I marvel when!
Fain would I see the deed Omniscience wrote;
Elder! there are commandments counting ten,
Which Great Jehovah upon Sinai taught;
Has He of late exempted Plymouth’s men--
Reversed his justice and made sin no fault?
Taught them to covet of their neighbor’s store,
And licensed robbery of the weak and poor?
L.
“Behold these hands, which labor has made hard,--
Look at this weather-beaten brow and face,--
And ask yourself if to be thus debarred
And hunted from their fruits like beast of chase,
Demands not meekness more than God has spared
To human hearts in his abundant grace!
Followed e’en here!--Again compelled to flee!
As if this desert were too good for me!
LI.
“But I can go.--Oh, yes! I can submit;--
God in his mercy will give shelter still;
Go--tell your Dudley in the book ’tis writ
That the oppressor shall hereafter feel;
Yet, gracious Lord, grant that repentance fit
Him to receive the everlasting seal
Of thy salvation--that his lost estate
Be yet revealed, ere it is all too late!
LII.
“Grieve not, my Mary!--Children, do not weep!
Though yonder verdant lawns, and opening flowers,
And groves whose shades the murmuring streamlets sweep,
All perish for us now,--yet on far shores,
Perchance by yon blue bay or rolling deep,
Far from white brethren, mid barbarian powers,
Your father’s hands another glade may form,--
Another roof to shield you from the storm.”
LIII.
As here he ceased, in all the agony
Of mental pain he paced the cottage floor;
Absorbed in his own woes scarce did he see
The Elder pass, and leave his humble door;
His toils, cares, hopes, all lost; and poverty
Sudden, gaunt, naked, spread its glooms once more.
A clashing sound first broke this mental strife;
’Twas Waban, edging sharp his scalping knife.
LIV.
And such an ireful look, (his eyes so bright,
So played his muscles and so gnashed his teeth)--
Red warrior ne’er did show, save when in fight
His weapon makes the hostile heart a sheath,
And forces out the soul. He looked a sprite
Kindling a hell within!--Recoiling ’neath
The horrid feelings that the image woke,
Our Founder shrank, and thus the form bespoke:
LV.
“What fiend, O Waban! thus inflames thy breast?”
The spell of frenzy at the accents broke;
The red man paused, his hand the bosom pressed,
His eyes still flashing fire, and thus he spoke:
“My chief was angry with his pale-faced guest,
And at my sachem’s ire my own awoke;
I can pursue,--for viewless pinions lift
My nimble feet to speed thy vengeance swift.”
LVI.
A freezing horror crept through every vein,
As Williams heard the son of Nature speak;
And humbled stood he, for that ire profane
Was but his own that did new semblance take
In that wild man;--there stood the ancient Cain
And here the modern, better skilled to check
The wayward passions, and how dark soe’er
The mirror there might be, the real form was here.
LVII.
“Waban!” at length he said, “I grieve to see
That all I sowed fell on a barren rock;
How could my brother hope to gladden me
By such a deed? Thou dost thy sachem shock!
O! from thy savage nature try to flee;--
Lay down thy murderous knife and tomahawk,
And dwell on better themes. New toils invite,
And high rewards my brother shall requite.
LVIII.
“Oft have I heard my hunter name with pride
His long, deep, hollow, arrow-winged canoe;
Now drag her from the fern to Seekonk’s tide,
And bid her skim once more the waters blue;
She loves to rove, and we must far and wide
Seek other forests for a dwelling new;
Our toils here end; a cloud from Wamponand
Hangs o’er our glade, and blackens all the land.”
LIX.
A fickle race the red man’s kindred were,
Free as the elk that roved their native wood,
Here did they dwell to-day, to-morrow there,
As want or pleasure ruled the changeful mood;
And Waban loved adventures bold and rare,
Nor heard with sorrow of a new abode;
And forth he goes to seek his long canoe,
And trim her breast to skim the waters blue.
LX.
The while the infant group, from noon to night,
Passed here and there through all that cultured glade;
And sighed and wept, by turns, or sobbed outright,
As to its charms their last farewell they bade;
“Here father labored--here he slept till light
Renewed his toils,” they often thought or said;
And still the springing tears suffuse their eyes,
They dash them off--but still their sorrows rise.
LXI.
They plucked the blossoms from the blushing bush,
They quaffed the waters from the purling rill,
Their bread they scattered to the gentle thrush,
That seemed half-conscious of the coming ill;
The rabbit eyed them from his covert brush,
Their crumbs supplied the little sparrow’s bill;
And sadly then they sighed their last adieu,
“Our little friends, farewell! we sport no more with you.”
LXII.
Meantime the parents in the cottage sate,
Their bosoms heaving and their thoughts in gloom.
“O! what,” cried Mary, “is our coming fate?
And where, my husband, is our future home?
Will not dire famine on our footsteps wait,
And perils meet us whereso’er we roam?
Our harvest gone, who now can food supply?
Forced from this roof, where shall our children lie?”
LXIII.
“Trust we in God!” our pious Founder said;
“Doubt not the bounty of His providence,
Who Israel’s children through the desert led,
And in all perils was there sure defence;
He did not bid us this far forest tread,
To leave us here in want and impotence.
Warnings, my Mary, were most strangely given,
Such as I sometimes deem were sent from Heaven!
LXIV.
“Well can thy mind that stormy night recall,
The last in Salem that I dared abide,--
In fleecy torrents did the tempest fall,
Our little dwelling reeled from side to side;
The fading brands just glimmered on the wall,
Alone I sate, my heart with anguish tried,
When lo! a summons at the door I heard,
Deemed it a wretch distressed, the pass unbarred.
LXV.
“And straight appeared a venerable seer,
Such as on earth none ever saw before;
His temples spake at least their hundredth year,
In many a long and deeply furrowed score;
But, Oh! his eyes, in youthful glory clear,
Did from them a celestial radiance pour;
And then that face scarce seemed to veil the rays,
(Too bright for mortal!) of an angel’s blaze.
LXVI.
“And when he spake, methought the music clear
Of tongue seraphic, filled his heavenly tone;
It came so full, yet gently, on my ear,
It well might serenade the Almighty’s throne;
‘Williams,’ it said, ‘I come on message here
Of mighty moment, to this age unknown;
Thou must not dally, or the tempest fear,
But fly by morn into the forest drear.
LXVII.
“‘Thou art to voyage an unexploréd 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 the Anchor there, and trust in God.’
LXVIII.
“He went away, and I could not detain
Him from departing in the stormy night;
He would but promise to be seen again
Where faith in freedom should my rest invite.
I’ve often dwelt on that prophetic strain,
Recalled that voice,--and rightly can recite
The words it uttered.--Oh that I had more
Their import weighed, and shunned this tyrant shore!
LXIX.
“For, Mary, deem it not a sinful thought,
That Heaven should give her counsels to restore
The soul to freedom.--Lo! what wonders wrought
The God of Christians for the Church of yore;
With heathen darkness was the conscience fraught,
And tyrants chained it to a barbarous lore;
To break like thraldom in a Christian land,
Angels may speak, and God disclose his hand.
LXX.
“This spot I rashly chose. No Indian train
Glad welcome gave to my enraptured ear,
And that mysterious form comes not again,
Inspiring courage; therefore hence we steer,
Nor land nor dwelling let us think to gain
Until the greeting of Whatcheer! Whatcheer!
Our journey stays,--there, there is our abode;
Our anchor there, our Hope, Almighty God!”
LXXI.
Thus spoke our Sire, and now, with ready hand
And spirits lightened, Mary did prepare
For their departure to another land,--
Alas! they knew not how and knew not where.
At eventide, red Waban from the strand,
The children from the glade, with cheerless air
Revisited the cot.--One more sad night,
And thence they journey at the rising light.
LXXII.
Upon the cottage roof the Whip-poor-will
That night sang mournful to the conscious glade;
The lonely owl forsook her valley still,
And perched and hooted in the neighboring shade;
The wolf returned, and lapped the purling rill,
Sate on its marge, and at the cottage bayed;
From all its howling depths the desert came,
And seemed its lost dominion to reclaim.
CANTO NINTH.
[SCENES. Seekonk’s Stream and Banks--Whatcheer Cove and
Shore--Mooshausick’s Vale, or Site of Providence.]
’Tis early morn; Pawtucket’s torrent roar,
A solemn bass to Nature’s anthem bold,
Alone wakes Williams’ ear; its currents pour
Along with foaming haste, where they have rolled
Ages on ages, fretting here from shore
The basin broad, and there ’twixt hill and wold
Furrowing their channel deep; far hastening on,
Now lost in shades, now glimmering in the sun.
II.
No thraldom had they known save winter’s frost;
No exile yet had their free bosom borne;
Deep in that glade (now to our Founder lost,)
Their wave eternal had a basin worn;
Oft thence their flow had borne the stealthy host,
In light canoes, before the gray of morn,
Darkling to strike the foe,--but now no more
They bear the freight of men athirst for gore.
III.
Early that morn, beside the tranquil flood,
Where ready trimmed rode Waban’s frail canoe,
The banished man, his spouse and children, stood,
And bade their lately blooming hopes adieu.
The anxious mother had not yet subdued
Despondent sorrow, and the briny dew
Stole often down her cheeks; hers was the smart--
The searching anguish of the softer heart.
IV.
And, as she viewed the illimitable shade,
The haunt of savage men and beasts of prey,
She thought of all the dreadful ills arrayed
Against her children on their dangerous way;
“Ye houseless babes!” in her wild grief she said,
“What crimes were yours, what dire offences, say,
That even ye should share this cruel doom,
Beg of barbarians bread, and savage deserts roam?”
V.
But Father Williams, to his lot resigned,
Now rose to feelings of a loftier tone;
For Heaven to vigor had restored his mind,
And firmly braced it for the task unknown;
He scarcely glanced upon the toils behind;
His soul inspired did bolder visions own,
That from his breast dispelled each dismal gloom,
And cheered him onward to his destined home.
VI.
As the bold bird that builds her mansion high
On beetling crag or helmlock’s lofty bough,
Deep in the desert, far from human eye,
And deems herself secure from every foe,--
Aloft in overshadowing branches nigh,
Perceives the wild-cat’s threatening eye-balls glow,
And spurns her eyry, with ascending flight
To some tall ash that crests the mountain’s height;
VII.
So his vain toils he coldly now surveyed;
He had but sunk a bolder wing to try;
He snatched the weepers from the hated glade,
And bore them lightly to the shallop nigh;
Then sprang into the stern, and cheerly bade
The dusky pilot his deft paddle ply;--
While, shoved from shore, the settling skiff descends
Low in the flood, and with the burden bends.
VIII.
Now with a giddy whirl the wheeling prow
Veering around points with the downward tide;
Then Waban’s paddle cuts the glassy flow;
The mimic whirlpools pass on either side;
The surface cleaves, the waters boil below;--
The cot, the glade, the forests backward glide;
Until the shadows, moving as they flew,
Closed round the green and shut the roof from view.
IX.
Pawtucket’s murmurs die upon their ears,
As through the smooth expanse the swift canoe
Drives on; and now the straitened pass appears
With jutting mounds that lofty forests shew;--
Each giant trunk a navy’s timber rears;
Their mighty shadows o’er the flood they threw,
Shutting the heavens out, till glimmering day
Could scarce the long, dark, winding path display.
X.
Deep silence reigned o’er all the sable tide,
Broke only by the swarthy pilot’s oar;
Under the arching boughs the wanderers glide,
And the dark ripplings curl from shore to shore;
The startled wood-ducks ’neath the waters hide,
Or on fleet pinions through the branches soar;
Whilst overhead the rattling boughs, at times,
Tell where the streaked raccoon or wild cat climbs.
XI.
Oft on the lofty banks, from jutting rocks
The buck looked wildly on the swift canoe;
Oft o’er the bramble leaped the wary fox,
With bushy tail and fur of ruddy hue;
Or wheeling high and gathering still in flocks,
The dark-winged crows did by their clamors shew
Where the lone owl, upon his moss-grown seat,
Maintained, unvanquished yet, his drear retreat.
XII.
Far down the winding pass at length they spy
Where wider currents, bright as liquid gold,
Spread glimmering in the sun; and to the eye,
Still further down, broad Narraganset rolled
His host of waters azure as the sky;
For breezes from the hoary ocean cooled
His heaving breast, and, with rejoicing glance,
From shore to shore the wanton waters dance.
XIII.
And now did Williams in his mind debate;--
Should he that night cleave Narraganset’s flood,
Or on the Seekonk’s bank till morning wait,
And scour the while Mooshausick’s gloomy wood?
“Oh, would that Heaven might there predestinate
On earth, Soul-Liberty! thy first abode,”
(He often thought) “or where, in ocean’s arms,
Aquidnay smiles in her wild virgin charms.”
XIV.
While thus he ponders, down the stream he sees,
Where from th’ encroaching cove the wood retires,
Dark wreaths of smoke rise o’er the lofty trees,
And deems that there some village wakes its fires.
“Waban,” he says, “seest thou yon dusky breeze?
Say, from what town that curling smoke aspires?
What valiant sachem holds dominion there?
And what the number that he leads to war?”
XV.
“No town--the feast of peace!”--the red man cried,
And still with brawny arms impelled the oar;
“The clans from Narraganset far and wide,
And every tribe from Pokanoket’s shore,
There smoke the pipe, and lay the axe aside,--
The pipe my chief to Potowomet bore;
Much they rejoice--their ancient hate forego,
And deem the White Chief a good Manittoo.”
XVI.
A secret joy o’er Father Williams’ breast
Stole like the fragrance of a balmy morn,
That breathes on sleep with fearful dreams opprest,
And wakes to its delights the wretch forlorn;
His toils and wanderings were not all unblest;
Some joy to others had his sufferings borne;--
But promised good brings doubt to the distrest,
And thus still dubious he his guide addrest:
XVII.
“What singing bird has on the wandering wing
Borne these strange tidings to my hunter’s ear?
Where, on her pinions poising, did she sing,
And with her faithless song his bosom cheer?”
Waban replied, that he, while journeying
Unto the white man’s town, through forests drear,
Had on Cohannet’s banks his brethren met,
Bound to the banquet of the calumet.
XVIII.
And now hoarse murmurs reach our Founder’s ear,
Rising behind a cape from crowds unseen;
Then by the eastern marge they swiftly steer,
Till shows a tufted isle its welcome screen;
Veering to this, they gain a prospect near
Of the red hosts that throng the opposing green;--
Hundreds on hundreds did the fires surround,
Ran on the shores or verdant banks embrowned.
XIX.
Along the strand their speed the racers try,
And with their flying feet scarce touch the ground;
From goal to goal the nimble hunters fly,
Crowds shout above them, and the woods resound;
Here their lithe limbs the swarthy wrestlers ply,--
They tug, they writhe, they sweat, crowds shout around;
And there the circles watch the doubtful game,
Or greet the victor with their loud acclaim.
XX.
Then Williams saw, beneath a shady bower,
Miantonomi, Sachem young and brave,
And Massasoit, Haup’s kind Sagamore,
And old Canonicus, so wise and grave,
Known by his peaceful pipe and tresses hoar,
And by the scarlet coat our Founder gave;
Round them their captains intermingled stood,
All friendly now, though lately fierce for blood.
XXI.
From chief to chief the calumet they past,
Sitting, in silent solemn council, round;
Each thrice inhaled, thrice forth the vapors cast,--
First to the power that bids the thunder sound,
Then to the gods that ride the angry blast,
Then to the fiends that dwell beneath the ground;
These made propitious, they the hatchet gave,
The bloody hatchet, to a peaceful grave.
XXII.
“Waban,” said Williams, “we may venture now,
But pause ye short of the sure arrow’s flight;”
Instant the red man drove the foaming prow
Along the cleaving flood, and, at the sight
Of the red hosts of men, the rose’s glow
Fading at once left Mary’s cheek all white;
And sudden fears her children’s breasts surprise,
And, with their little hands, they veil their eyes.
XXIII.
Full in the front of that vast multitude,
Beyond an arrow’s flight their skiff they stayed;
A sudden silence hushed the listening wood;
The crowds all paused, and with wild eyes surveyed
The pale-faced group, which in like stillness viewed
The wondering throngs. At length the woodland glade
Moves with their numbers; down the banks they pour,
Swarming and gathering on the dark’ning shore.
XXIV.
As when some urchin, with a heedless blow,
The insect nations of the hive alarms,
Down from their cells the watchful myriads flow,
And earth and air grow black with murmuring swarms;
So from the woods the wondering warriors go,
So o’er the dark’ning strand their concourse forms;
None save their haughty chiefs remain behind,
And they the lofty banks and forest margin lined.
XXV.
Then silence reigned again--but still they stared;
Some claspt their knives, and some their arrows drew;
Then from his seat his form our Founder reared,
The while beneath him rocked the frail canoe;
His hand he raised and manly forehead bared,
And straight their former friend the Sachems knew;
“Netop, Whatcheer!” broke on the listening air;
“Whatcheer! Whatcheer!” re-echoed here and there.
XXVI.
Then o’er and the o’er the words burst loud and clear,
In shouts that seemed to seek the joyous sky;
With open arms and greetings of “Whatcheer,”
Lived all the shores, and banks, and summits high;
“Whatcheer! Whatcheer!” resounded far and near,
“Whatcheer! Whatcheer!” the echoing woods reply;
“Whatcheer! Whatcheer!” swells the exulting gales,
Sweeps o’er the laughing hills and trembles thro’ the vales.
XXVII.
“Speed! Waban, speed!” with haste our Founder cried,
Soon as the hollow echoes died afar;
With lusty arm the hunter clove the tide,
The swift canoe seemed moving through the air;
One instant more and Williams, from her side,
Sprang on a rock, (thence giving it to share
His deathless fame,) and straight around him stood,
In cheerful throngs, the Indian multitude.
XXVIII.
Miantonomi, stepping from the crowd,
Stretched forth his brawny hand, and cried “Whatcheer!
Welcome, my brother! say, what lowering cloud,
O’er Seekonk’s eastern marge, impels thee here?
Be it the Pequot in his numbers proud,
I hold his greeting in this glittering spear;
But oh! perchance my brother seeks this place,
To share with us the sacred rites of peace?”
XXIX.
“Not so, brave chief; it is to seek a home,
By seer announced, by Heaven to me assigned;
Yonder abode lies wrapt in sable gloom,
Not of the Pequot, but the Plymouth kind;
My promised harvest blighted in the bloom,
My voiceless roof,--all, all have I resigned,
And hither come to seek Mooshausick’s plain,
And beg the gift once proffered me in vain.”
XXX.
Good Massasoit, who did these accents hear,
Would now our Founder greet,--and with a face,
That spoke a sorrow deep and most sincere:
“Long have I strove,” he said, “in thought to trace
What Manit most my Plymouth friends revere;
For aye their deeds their better words efface,
Their tongues much speak of Spirit good and great,
Their hands much do the work of Chepian’s hate.”
XXXI.
Here grave Canonicus came from the throng,--
“Welcome, my son!” exclaimed the aged chief,
“Bear thou the inflictions of thy kindred’s wrong
With man’s stout courage, not with woman’s grief;
The lands thou seëst shall to thee belong,
And for thy comforts lost, a moment brief
Shall all the loss repair;--o’er yonder height
Is where till lately Chepian reigned in might.
XXXII.
“Abandoned by his Priest his land now lies,--
Left by that Priest’s own slaves,--for slaves had he
Who tilled his field and made his mansion rise,
Adorned with mats and colors fair to see;
The Priest is gone,--how, nothing care the wise;
His timid followers from their labors flee,--
All fear within the fiend’s control to stay;
For who but Chepian’s Priest can Chepian sway?”
XXXIII.
So spake Canonicus, the wise and old,--
While shouts on shouts a full accordance shewed,--
Then turned and sought the late forsaken hold;
Our Sire, the matron, and her charge pursued;
The ready tribes, behind them forming, rolled
In march triumphant onward through the wood,
Cheering the exile’s home; and as they sped,
Earth rumbled under their far-thundering tread.
XXXIV.