Part 7

Gladly he heard from Waban’s faithful tongue Sire Williams’ speeches and the answers given, And wildly shouted all that warrior throng, To learn the dire enchanter’s spell was riven; And wilder shouts the echoing vales prolong, To hear that priest was from the council driven; “The tree of peace” they cried, “will bloom again, The wizard’s banished, and his manit slain.”

LXI.

Then to the elder chief our Father gave The Narraganset friendly calumet; And it was pleasant to behold the grave And stern old Sachem, whilst his eyes were wet With tears of gratitude;--he could outbrave The stake’s grim tortures, and could smiling sit Amid surrounding foes; yet kindness could Subdue to tears this “stoic of the wood.”

LXII.

He clasped our Father by the hand and led Him up, in silence, to the mountain’s crown; And there, from snow-capt outlook at its head, They gazed o’er bay and isle and forest brown. It seemed a summer’s eve in winter bred; The sun in ruddy gold was going down, And calm and far the expanded waters lay, Clad in the glory of the dying day.

LXIII.

There stretched Aquidnay tow’rd the ocean blue, In virgin wildness still of isles the queen; Her forests glimmered with the western hue, Her vales and banks were decked with cedars green, And southward far her swelling bosom drew Its lessening contours, in the distance seen;-- Till, wavering indistinctly, in the gray Encroaching sea-mists they were hid away.

LXIV.

Beneath his feet, Aquidnay’s north extreme Displayed a cove, begemmed with islets gay; Its silvery surface caught the setting beam, Where’er the op’ning hemlocks gave it way; Young nature there, tranced in her earliest dream, Did all her whims in vital forms array; Her feathered tribes round beak and headland glide, Her scaly broods leap from the glassy tide.

LXV.

Out from Aquidnay tow’rd the setting sun, Spread the calm waters like a sea of gold Studded with isles, till Narraganset dun Fringed the far west, and cape and headland bold, With forest shagged, cast their huge shadows down, And glassed them in the wave; while silence old Resumed her reign, save that by times did rise, On Williams’ ears, the sea-birds’ jangling cries.

LXVI.

Or the lone fowler, in his light canoe, Round jutting point all warily did glide, And pause awhile to watch, with steadfast view, Where the long-diving loon might break the tide; Then, noiseless, near the myriad seafowl drew, And, baffled, saw them scur, with clangor wide, Up from the foamy flood, and, mounting high, Darken the day, and seek another sky.

LXVII.

Then looking north, from far could he behold, Bright bursting from his source through forests dun, Like liquid silver, broad Cohannet rolled Tow’rd parent ocean;--there his currents run Embrowned by fringing woods;--here molten gold, Gleaming and glittering in the setting sun, They glance by Haup--there, eastward as they pour, They cleave Aquidnay from Pocasset’s shore.

LXVIII.

That rude Pocasset--which, when Williams saw From towering Haup, did one broad forest shew; Here, steep o’er steep, there, leaving Nature’s law, Hill, glade, and swamp,--presenting to the view So mad a maze, that there, if hunter draw His sounding bow, and but a space pursue The wounded deer, he finds his guidance fail, And lost, halloos through tangled brake and dale.

LXIX.

Yet the rude wigwams smoked from many a glade, Where near the shore the oaks were branching wide, Where future gardens might invite the spade, Or furrowing plough the fertile glebe divide, And where, still south, the hills retiring made More ample meadows by the glassy tide; Till far Seaconnet showed her rim of rock, Whereon the ocean’s rolling billows broke.

LXX.

But on Aquidnay dwelt our Founder’s gaze, Enraptured still. “Would Seekonk’s mead compare With yon wild Eden?” While he thus delays, The old chief’s hand does on his bosom bear, As he explains: “Another sachem sways The isle of peace. All Haup’s dominions are Stretched tow’rd the God of frost--look there and choose; All thou hast won, and well a part mayst use.”

LXXI.

Turned by the words that gently woke his ears, Before his eyes a boundless forest lay; The mossy giants of a thousand years, O’er hill and plain their mighty arms display; Mound after mound, far lessening north, appears, Till in blue haze they seem to melt away; Here Seekonk wedded with Mooshausick beamed, And there Cohannet’s liquid silver gleamed.

LXXII.

Here Kikimuet left his woodland height, Bright in the clear, or dark beneath the shade; There Sowams gleamed,--if names the muse aright, Till in the forest far his glories fade; While here and there, rose curling on his sight The village smokes of many a sheltered glade; And, nearer, clustered at the mountain’s base, The foremost town of Pokanoket’s race.

LXXIII.

Embosomed there in massy shades it stood; Its frequent voices, up the silent steep, Came on our Founder’s ear;--in cheerful mood, The tones of childhood shrill, and manhood deep, Told him what sports, what toils were there pursued; Or, wild and clear, the melody would sweep Of girlish voices, warbling plaintive strains, Half chant, half music, over woods and plains.

LXXIV.

Ah! how more lovely than the silence hushed, That lists in horror for the foeman’s tread! A tender joy our Father’s bosom flushed,-- The work was his that had these blessings spread; The storm, that else had o’er the nation rushed, Had by his sufferings and his toils been stayed; And as he mused, his hand the Sachem pressed, For like emotions swelled his rugged breast.

LXXV.

“And oh!” he cried, “what can the Sachem do? How can he give to Winiams recompense? Our foes were many, and our warriors few, But Winiams came, and he was our defence; Go, brother, plant--go, plant our forest through-- All hast thou won by thy benevolence; All hast thou saved from ruthless enemies, Take what thou wilt, and take what best may please.”

LXXVI.

Our Father answered--“give me bounds and deeds-- No lands I take but such as parchment names; To future ages will I leave no seeds To yield a harvest of discordant claims; If name I must, I name fair Seekonk’s meads-- What first I craved still satisfies my aims; These and the friendship of my neighbors are Reward too generous for my toil and care.”

LXXVII.

“My brother gives with palm expanded wide,” The Sachem said, “but with a closing hand Our gifts are half received and half denied; Ha! was he born in the white stranger’s land? My brother’s corn shall wave by Seekonk’s tide-- My brother’s town shall on its margin stand; And on the deer-skin, tested by my bow, My painted voice shall talk, and to far ages go.”

LXXVIII.

While thus they spake, the sun declining low, In Narraganset’s shades, half veiled his light; On rapid pinions did the dark winged crow And broad plumed eagle speed their homeward flight; Warned by the signs, the twain, descending slow, In converse grave, pass down the wooded height; And, in the Sachem’s sylvan palace, share Respite from hunger, toil, and present care.

CANTO SIXTH.

[SCENE. Seekonk’s Mead, or Place of the First Settlement.]

The winds of March o’er Narraganset’s bay Move in their strength--the waves with foam are white; O’er Seekonk’s tide the tossing branches play, The woods roar o’er resounding plain and height; ’Twixt sailing clouds, the sun’s inconstant ray But glances on the scene--then fades from sight; The frequent showers dash from the passing clouds; The hills are peeping through their wintry shrouds.

II.

Dissolving snows each downward channel fill, Each swollen brook a foaming torrent brawls, Old Seekonk murmurs, and from every hill Answer aloud the coming waterfalls; Deep-voiced Pawtucket thunders louder still,-- To dark Mooshausick joyously he calls, Who breaks his bondage, and through forests brown Murmurs the hoarse response and rolls his tribute down.

III.

But hark! that sound, above the cataracts And hollow winds in this wild solitude, Seems passing strange.--Who with the laboring axe, On Seekonk’s eastern marge, invades the wood? Stroke follows stroke;--some sturdy hind attacks Yon ancient groves, which from their birth have stood Unmarred by steel, and, startled at the sound, The wild deer snuffs the gales,--then, with a bound,

IV.

Vaults o’er the thickets, and down yonder glen His antlers vanish; on yon shaggy height Sits the lone wolf, half-peering from his den, And howls regardless of the morning light; Unwonted sounds and a strange denizen Vex his repose; soon, cowering with affright, He shrinks away, for with a crackling sound, Yon hemlock bows and thunders to the ground.

V.

Who on the prostrate trunk has risen now, And does with cleaving steel the blows renew? Broad is the beaver on his manly brow, His mantle gray, his hosen azure blue; His feet are dripping with dissolving snow, His garments sated with the morning dew;-- Our Founder is he, and, though changed by long And grievous suffering, steadfast still and strong.

VI.

Hard by yon little fountain clear and sheen, Whose swollen streamlet murmurs down the glade, Where groves of hemlock and of cedars green Oppose to northern storms a barricade, Stands the first mansion of his rude demesne, A slender wigwam by red Waban made; Their common shelter from the wintry blast; And place of rest when daily toils are past.

VII.

Yet from the storm he seldom shrinks away, With his own hands he labors now to rear A mansion, where his wife and children may, In happier days, partake the social cheer; And unrelenting bigot ne’er essay To make the free-born spirit quail with fear At threat of scourge, or banishment or death, For free belief, the soul’s sustaining breath.

VIII.

Day after day does he his toil renew; From dawn till dark still doth his axe resound, And falling cedars still the valley strew, Or cumber with their trunks the littered ground; The solid beams and rafters does he hew, Or labors hard to roll or heave them round; Or squares their sides, or shapes the joints aright To match their fellows and the whole unite.

IX.

The beams now hewn, he frames the building square, Each joint adjusting to its counterpart-- Tier over tier with labor does he bear, Timber on timber closes every part, Except where door or lattice to the air A passage yields,--and from the walls now start The rafters, matted over and between,-- Against the storm and cold,--with rushes green.

X.

Long did this task his patient cares engage, ’Twas labor strange to hands like his, I ween, That had far oftener turned the sacred page Than hewed the trunk or delved the grassy green; But toils like these gave honors to the sage; The axe and spade in no one’s hands are mean, And least of all in thine, that toiled to clear The mind’s free march--Illustrious Pioneer!

XI.

His cottage finished, he proceeds to rear A strong rude paling round that verdant glade His field and garden soon will flourish there, And wild marauders may their fruits invade; His maize may be a banquet for the bear, And herds of deer may on his herbage tread; But little thinks he that intruders worse Than these will enter and his labors curse.

XII.

Now milder spring ushers its April showers, And up fair Seekonk woos the southern breeze; The birds are singing in their woodland bowers, Green grows the ground and budding are the trees The purple violets and wild strawberry flowers Invite the visits of the murmuring bees; And down the glade the twittering swallow slips, And in the stream her nimble pinions dips.

XIII.

And now, with vigor and redoubled haste, Our Founder delves to plant the foodful maize; He turns the glebe, does nature’s rankness waste, The boscage burn, and noxious brambles raze; Then o’er the seed, on earth’s brown bosom placed, The fertile mould with careful hand he lays; Nor yet content,--still labors, other whiles, The glade to gladden with a garden’s smiles.

XIV.

Then in the woods he carved the deep alcove, And led the climbing vines from tree to tree; But near the cottage left the birchen grove, Its tassels waving in the breezes free; While o’er the stream their boughs the cedars wove, Where wound a walk adown the murmuring lea; And gadding vines embowered the fount’s bright flow ’Twixt banks of vernal flowers in bloom below.

XV.

Ne’er hatchet touched the overhanging bough, Whereon the robin built her wonted nest; About the borders did the wild rose grow, For there the thrush might soothe her brood to rest; Nor would he banish from her dwelling low The long-eared rabbit, but her young caressed; Fed from his hand they gambolled in the grove, Caressed our Sire in turn, and mimicked human love.

XVI.

And these long toils had Waban’s faithful aid; His twanging bow announced the early dawn; Boldly he pushed into the deepest shade, Or scanned the tracks upon the dewy lawn; With lusty arms he grappled on the glade The growling bear, or caught the bounding fawn, Or, with sure arrow and resounding bow, Brought down the turkey from her lofty bough.

XVII.

Sometimes he would the river’s bed explore, Where with sure grasp the slippery eels he caught; Sometimes he delved along the sandy shore, And to the lodge the shelly tribute brought; And ever shared he with his Sagamore, (For so to call our Founder he was taught,) The produce of his toils; and ’twas his care To parch the maize and spread the frugal fare.

XVIII.

So for a while they two in quietude, With hopes auspicious, urged their task along,-- Lighter of heart; though Williams still would brood, And inly marvel, o’er the missing throng Of friendly Indians, issuing from the wood To greet him with “What-Cheer” in voices strong; And oft would wonder if perchance a vain Illusion had beguiled his troubled brain.

XIX.

But omens dark and dire appeared at last: The grim Pawaw had seen the mansion rise,-- Had from Mooshausick’s highlands often cast On the advancing work his watchful eyes; And often, wafted on the passing blast, Our Sire had heard that wizard’s warning cries:-- Yet hoped that, baffled and chastised, his pride, And courage too, had with his serpent died.

XX.

Vain hope! The close had scarce been made secure, Ere Seekonk’s western marge was blazing bright, And decked with horns, and furs, and paints impure, The prophet with a comrade danced all night Around the flame, and howling, did adjure His manittoo that most abhorred the light To give him aid, and, by or force or fraud, His hated neighbor drive once more abroad.

XXI.

War! war! he threatened:--and when morning came,-- Though quenched the fire,--upon the margin he, All trim for strife, bent his gigantic frame O’er Seekonk’s severing flow, and toward the lea Shook his ensanguined barb and smote the stream, And muttered curses numbering three times three; Then bent his bow, and sent across the flood Darts armed with serpents’ fangs and red with blood.

XXII.

And brandishing his blade, he jeering said, That vengeance gave it eyes and appetite, It soon would eat, but eat in silence dread; That if the red men all were turning white, He’d seek the white men that were turning red; The path was open, and his foot was light; The Shawmut[20] hunters would with greedy ear Hear in what covert couched their stricken deer.

[20] The Indian name for Boston.

XXIII.

Then, with a hideous yell that rent the skies, He sternly turned and tow’rd Mooshausick flew. Waban who watched the scene with blazing eyes, Swift answer gave in shouts of valor true. From threats like these our Sire might harm surmise, But that he deemed the wily wizard knew How heavy was Miantonomi’s spear, And, if ’twere needful, might be made to fear.

XXIV.

But, after this portentous morn, scarce sun Looked on that glade, but brought them fresh alarms; If Waban delved the shores or walked thereon, Missiles around him flew from hidden arms; His snares were plundered ere the morning shone, Clubs smeared with blood and threatening deadly harms Lay in his path, and voices strangely broke From viewless forms on shrub, or tree, or rock.

XXV.

Oft from the vacant air came bitter jeer In gibberish strange, and oft from under ground A hellish mockery smote the hunter’s ear, And he would start; but if he glanced around And Williams saw, he banished every fear; For well he knew his Sachem could confound Such diabolic phantoms,--he who slew, In Potowomet’s glade, the serpent manittoo.

XXVI.

Then taking courage he would seek the brake, Cull the straight haft, and arm it with the bone Or tooth of beaver, and the plumage take From Neyhom wild to wing and guide it on Straight to its mark, or with nice handling make Of sinewy deer the bowstring tough, or hone His glittering scalping-knife, and grimly feel How sharp its point, how keen its edge of steel.

XXVII.

At length, no longer heedful of disguise, Upon the opposing bank the wizard stood, With meet compeer--both armed; their battle cries And challenge fired brave Waban’s martial blood; Scorning all counsel, to the marge he flies, And shoots his arrows o’er the severing flood; To taunts and jeers his bow alone replies, And soon their hostile missiles span the skies.

XXVIII.

From tree to tree the champions fly and fight, Driving or driven from the sheltering screen, Each change, each movement, yielding to the sight Their swarthy members through the foliage green; Whereat their arrows follow, flight on flight, With hideous yells at every pause between; Now down the stream--now at the tumbling falls, The petty battle raves, and wrath to vengeance calls.

XXIX.

Hour after hour thus raged the doubtful fight, Until the combatants their shafts had spent; Then to the river’s marge in peaceful plight, Bearing the pipe with fumes all redolent, The fraudful wizard came, as to invite Across the stream to cheer quite innocent And friendly league a neighbor and a friend; “Come, let the pipe,” he said, “the battle end.

XXX.

“Waban is brave, and Tatoban is brave; Hereafter let us live as neighbors kind, And let thy arrows sleep; no more shall rave This knife and hatchet; Tatoban was blind!” “Go!” Waban cried, “thou and thy dastard slave! Go trap the Neyhom, or the foolish hind; But thinkest thou into thy open snare, To lure the cunning fox, and slay him there?”

XXXI.

Thus closed the strife that day; another came, And all was peace; another sun and still Another rose and set, and still the same Unbroken peace--no threatening sign of ill: Quite undisturbed red Waban trapped his game Or delved the shore--no foe appeared; until Our Sire believed that he might safely bless His weary hours with earth’s best happiness.

XXXII.

Waban, his only counsellor and friend, Warrior and subject in this lone domain, Did now the summons of his chief attend, And, questioned by him, straightway answered plain. “Waban,” said Williams, “do our battles end? Is the war over--have we peace again? No more on yonder bank the prophet stands And wings his darts or whirls his blazing brands.”

XXXIII.

Waban replied, “Did ever noon-day light On midnight break? Did ever tempest shed, Just as it gathered, radiance mild and bright? Heard not my Sachem what the prophet said,-- That if the red men were all turning white, He’d seek such white men as were turning red? Perchance he goes, and Waban has a fear That to his cunning speech they’ll lend an ear.”

XXXIV.

“Waban, fear not; my pale-faced brethren are All Christians, or at least would such be thought; And dost thou think that Beelzebub, how fair Soe’er his speech may be, could move them aught Against their brother? It is better far,-- If it be true such vengeance he have sought,-- Than that he lurk among the bushes here, To fill our days with care and nights with fear.

XXXV.

“But, Waban, I have now a task for thee;-- Think not of him; but let thy mind be here. Whilst snows o’erspread the earth and ice the sea, I parted from my wife and children dear; ’Twas stormy night, the hunter sheltered me, And gave me in his lodge abundant cheer; Then tow’rd the rising sun for me he sped, And saw the home from which the wanderer fled.

XXXVI.

“There too he saw his little children play, And the white hand which gave the blanket red; But now that gloomy time seems far away, For much has happened, many a moon has sped; The lodge is built, the garden smiling gay;-- Will the swift foot once more the forest thread, And guide the children and the snow-white hand, With watchful tendance, to this distant land?”

XXXVII.

Waban replied: “The nimble-foot will go;-- But a gaunt wolf may haunt the hunter’s way, And he will whet his darts, and string his bow, And gird his loins as for the battle fray; The Priest of Chepian ne’er forgets a foe;-- His vengeance lasts until a bloody day Doth feed the crows, or still a bloodier night Gives the gaunt wolf a feast ere dawning light.”

XXXVIII.

“God is our trust!” our pious Founder said, “Arm, and go forth confiding in his might; So far as e’er an exile’s foot dare tread The ground forbidden him, thy sachem white Will go to meet thee; and when morn has shed Five times from eastern skies her golden light, Will wait thee and his wife and children dear, Hidden in Salem woods till thou appear.”

XXXIX.

Our Founder then the brief epistle traced, Entreating first that some kind Salem friend, To aid his little Israel through the waste, Would for a while two well-trained palfreys lend; Then to his wife, with kind expression graced, Did meet directions for her guidance send; Called her from Egypt, bade her cheerly dare The desert pass, and find her Canaan there.

XL.

The morrow dawned, and Waban stood prepared; His knife well sharpened and his bow well strung-- He waited only till his chief declared His purpose full; then on his mantle flung, Girded his loins, his brawny arms he bared, And lightly through the rattling thickets sprung; And soon the thunderings of the partridge tell Where bounds his distant foot from dell to dell.

CANTO SEVENTH.

[SCENES. Seekonk’s Mead--The Wilderness--Salem--The Wilderness--The Night at the Cavern--The New Home.]

Much Williams dreaded that dark priest, I ween, Albeit he hid his fears from Waban’s eyes; His threat’ning arrows and his savage mien Would often now in midnight dreams arise; And, rising, bring of blood a woful scene-- His Mary pale--his children’s wailing cries; And he would start, and marvel how a dream, Delirium’s thought, should so substantial seem.

II.

If in the lonely wilds, by evening dim, That vengeful savage should the path waylay Of all the dearest earth contained for him, Those jewels of the heart, what power could stay His thirst for blood--his fury wild and grim As is the tiger’s bounding on his prey? Oft came obtrusive this appalling thought-- He shook it off--still it returned unsought.

III.