WHATCHEER. (continued 3)

“Nature’s own truths do oft the mind mislead; From partial glimpses men will judge the whole; And it were better if our Church’s creed Were learning’s object and its utmost goal; Reason would then no higher purpose need, Than, by it, point the yet erratic soul To her high hope and everlasting rest!” Williams this heard, and spake with kindling breast:

“God gave man reason, that his soul might be Free as his glance that spans the universe; All things around him prompt inquiry free, All do his reason to research coerce; The Heavens, the Earth, the many breeding sea, All have their shapes and qualities to nurse The soul’s aspirings, and, from blooming youth To ripe old age, provoke the quest of truth.

“Truth! I would know thee wert thou e’er so bad, Bad as thy persecutors deem or fear, Wert thou in more than Gorgon terrors clad, Thy glance a death to every feeling dear; Taught thou that God a demon’s passions had, That Earth is Hell, and that the damned dwell here, And death the end of all;—still would I know The total Curse—the sum of being’s woe.

“Yet fear not this, for each new truth reveals Of God a nearer and a brighter view; Anticipation lags behind, and feels How mean her thought at each discovery new; Her stars were stones fired in revolving wheels— Truth! thine are worlds self-moved the boundless through Who checks man’s Reason in her heavenward flight, Would shroud, O God! thy glorious works in night!

“Whence didst thou learn that the Almighty’s plan Required thy wisdom to protect and save, That, when he sent his Gospel down to man, Thou to defend it must the soul enslave, Enthrone deceit, and place beneath its ban The honest heart, that dares its sentence brave? Full well I trow the Prince of Darkness fits The blood of martyrs shed by hypocrites.

“Hearken for once; just as the conscience pure Is here God’s presence to my wayward will— Not to constrain it, but to kindly lure It on by duty’s path, from every ill; So to the State the Christian Church, secure From human thrall, should be a conscience, still Ne’er to constrain, save by that heavenly light Which bares the Wrong, and maketh plain the Right.”

“No more, friend Williams,” said the Elder here, “No more will we on this grave theme delay; My hopes were high, and ’twas an object dear To shed some light on thy benighted way; But still wilt thou with sinful purpose steer Thy little bark against the tempest’s sway; On mayst thou go—I cannot say God speed! But would thy object were some better deed.

“Couldst thou renounce thy purpose here to base A State where heretics may refuge find, I do not doubt that to some little grace The Plymouth rulers would be well inclined; But as it is, perhaps some other place, Still more remote, may better suit thy mind; But till the morn as may a guest befit, My message hither do I pretermit.”

Our Founder pondered on the Elder’s word; What could this dark portentous message be, With its delivery until morn deferred, Lest it should mar night’s hospitality. The wrath of Plymouth he had not incurred, He with her Winslow was in amity; Then what strange message had the Elder borne, That utterance sought, and yet was hushed till morn!

This cause, mysterious, darkling, undefined, 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.

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.

“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.”

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.

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.”

“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.”

“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?”

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.”

“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.

“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?

“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!

“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!

“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.”

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.

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:

“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.”

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.

“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.

“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.”

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.

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.

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.”

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?”

“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!

“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.

“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.

“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.

“‘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.’

“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!

“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.

“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!”

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.

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.

’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.

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.

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.

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?”

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.

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;

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.”

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?”

“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.”

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:

“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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

“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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

“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.

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?”

“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.”

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.”

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.

“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?”

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.

The forest branches, woven overhead, Shut out the day and cast a twilight gloom;— For where long since extends the verdant mead, Shines the fair palace, beauteous gardens bloom, One vault of green o’er-roofed a palisade Of trunks and brambles, boscage, brake and broom;— Amid which chafed the warriors’ surly mood, And cracked and crashed the thickets as they trod.

They gained the height where now the Muses reign— Where now Brown’s bounty[21] to the human mind Links earth and heaven; the fruit of honest gain Moulding the youthful soul, by taste refined, To truth’s eternal quest.—How poor and vain, To such high bounty, seems a meaner kind;— But this in after times;—for forests then Mantled the height and swarmed with savage men.

Thence, in the vale below, our Founder sees Where dark Mooshausick rolls, and seaward casts, Its waters,—rolling under lofty trees With crossing branches, thick as e’er the masts That shall, thereafter, on the wanton breeze Display their banners, when, in sounding blasts, The cannon utters its triumphant voice, And bids the land through all its States rejoice.

And thence, with prescient eye, he gazes far O’er the rude sites of palaces and shrines, Where Grecian beauty to the buxom air Shall rise resplendent in its shapely lines; Ay, almost hears the future pavements jar Beneath a people’s wealth, and half divines From thee, Soul-Liberty! what glories wait Thy earliest altars—thy predestined State.

Then down the steep, by paths scored in its side, Where frequent deer had sought the floods below, He past, still following his dusky guide And stooping often under drooping bough, To a broad cultured field, expanding wide Betwixt dense thickets and Mooshausick’s flow. Its deep green rows of waving maize foretold Abundant harvest from a fertile mould.

The Priest’s forsaken lodge rose thereamid, Beside a fountain on a verdant lawn, Spacious as some great Sachem’s, and half-hid In mantling vines wherewith it was o’ergrown; And Williams thought of what his warrior did On that dark bloody night, so direly known,— Mourning the fate that caused the Sorcerer’s doom; Yet sees its fruit, a temporary home.

But some last scruples still his mind assail; For, ah! what rites had made the place profane! When thus the chief:—“No more my son bewail Thy comforts lost; let the Great Spirit reign Where Chepian reigned; ay, let thy God prevail; Be thou His Priest, and this thine own domain; From wild Pawtucket to Pawtuxet’s bounds To thee and thine be all the teeming grounds.”

High thanks Sire Williams paid;—but as he spake, Came over him a feeling passing strange; A prophet’s rapture in his breast did wake; For, at that moment, down the boundless range Of heavenly spheres did some bright being take Wing to his soul, and wrought to suited change The visual nerve, and straight in outward space Stood manifest in its celestial grace.[22]

At once he cried, “I see! I see the seer! His very form, his very shape and air! By yonder fount;—the same his robes appear; The same his radiant eyes and flowing hair; Mary! my children! come! his accents hear; See age and youth one heavenly beauty share!” They with him moved, (yet ne’er the vision saw,) Until the father paused, transfixed in sacred awe.

For strange to tell, youth’s lingering light began To spread fresh glories o’er that aged face; Till over beard, and hair, and visage wan, Burst the full splendor of angelic grace; A lambent flame about the forehead ran, And rainbow hues the earthly robes displace; The curling locks, like beams of living light, Streamed back and glowed insufferably bright.

The figure seemed to grow; its dazzling eyes Were for a while upon Sire Williams bent, Then upward turned, and, looking to the skies, Spake hope in God with silence eloquent. Still did it brighten, still its stature rise, With Heaven’s own grandeur seeming to augment;— The pilgrim staff no longer did it hold, But on an Anchor leant that blazed ethereal gold.

Our Father gazed, and, from that heavenward eye, Beheld the clear angelic radiance flow; And saw that figure, as it towered on high, With inward glory fill, dilate and grow Translucent,—and then fade,—as from the sky The sunset fades or fades the radiant bow; Until, dissolving in transparent air, It disappeared and left no traces there.

Then low, on bended knees, he drops to own The Heaven-born vision, and his soul declare; His wife and children, near him kneeling down, Send up their hearts upon the wings of prayer; The dusky tribes, in crescent round them shown, Give ear;—hill, vale and forest listeners are; Force to each word their faithful echoes lend, And with their Ruler’s prayers their own ascend.

“Mysterious Power! who dost in wonders speak, We note thy tokens and their import spell; Let Persecution still its vengeance wreak— Let its fierce billows roll with mountain swell, Here must we Anchor, and their force repel. Here, more securely, shall our bannered State Blazon the conscience sacred—ever free; Here shall she breast the coming storms of fate And ride triumphant o’er the raging sea, Her well-cast Anchor here, her lasting Hope in Thee!

“Here, thy assurance gives our wanderings rest, And shows where all our future toils must be; Lord! be our labors by thy mercies blest, And send their fruits to far posterity; Let our example still the Conscience free, Where’er she is by tyrant force enchained, And while the thraldom lasts, Oh! let her see Her safety here, where, ever unprofaned By persecution, her free altars are maintained.

“Accept, O Lord! our thanks for mercies past; Thou wast our cloud by day, our fire by night, While yet we journeyed through the dreary vast; Thou Canaan more than givest to our sight;— Lord! ’tis possessed, not seen from Pisgah’s height. We deeply feel this high beneficence; And ages hence our children shall recite Of Thy protecting grace their Father’s sense, And, when they name their Home, Proclaim Thy Providence!”