Part 8

Not long he brooks this torturing delay, But soon tow’rd Salem through the forest goes, Nor will the Muse go with him on his way, And sing in horrid shades each night’s repose, Until she, shuddering, mingle with her lay, And seem herself to bear her hero’s woes; Let it suffice that on the third day’s dawn, He gazed from Salem woods on Salem town.

IV.

He saw the cottage he must tread no more, And sighed that man should be so stern to man; Two harnessed palfreys stood beside the door, And by the windows busy movement ran; Then did his eyes the village downs explore, Ere yet the labors of the day began; But all still slept, save where the watch-dog bayed, Or lowed the kine and cropt the dewy glade.

V.

And many a field new traces of the plough, And many a roof its recent structure showed, And in the harbor many a sable prow, Rocked by the billows, at her anchor rode; And, ah! he saw (to him no temple now) The lowly house where erst in prayer he bowed, And strove to lead his little flock to Heaven; His flock no more,--with strifes now sorely riven.

VI.

He turned his eyes again to that dear spot Where, by the door, the waiting palfreys stood: There, laden now, they bore what Mary thought The tender exiles, in the lonely wood, Would need or miss the most, and likewise aught That would most cheer or comfort their abode; With useful household wares, securely piled, But cumbersome for journeying through the wild.

VII.

He saw red Waban take each palfrey’s rein, And slowly walk the laden beasts before; He saw his Mary, with her little train Of blooming children, issue from the door; He saw her loving neighbors them detain The Almighty’s blessing on them to implore, And heard the farewell hymn, a pensive strain Of mingled voices as they trod the plain.

VIII.

Pleasant it was, and mournful was it too, To see the matron leading by the hand, From all their joys to toils and dangers new, That innocent and happy infant band; For, hand in hand, did they their way pursue, With childish wonder, toward the distant land;-- As little witting of the ills that wait, As that their labors were to found a State.

IX.

Soon Waban passed him where concealed he stood, And slowly led his docile charge along; Then Mary stept into the dusky wood, Still guiding, as she came, the prattling throng; No longer viewless he his darlings viewed, But, wild with rapture, from the thicket sprung: “Oh, father! father!” burst the children’s cry, And Mary claspt him in her ecstacy.

X.

But short the transport--soon must they resume The weary march, and from the dawning gray Hour after hour, to pensive evening’s gloom, Through the lone forest wend their devious way; O’er river, vale, and steep, through brake and broom, And rough ravine, with aching steps they stray; The father’s arms oft bore the lovely weight, Or on the palfrey’s back the weariest sate.

XI.

And thus they past o’er many a rapid flow, Climbed many a hill--through many a valley wound, While wary Waban moved before them slow, And for their feet the smoothest pathway found; River and fen and miry waste and low, The floods had swollen to their utmost bound; Unbridged by frost, no passage do they show, And far about the anxious wanderers go.

XII.

The sun from middle skies now downward bent His course, and for a while on lofty ground They rested, and abroad their glances sent Far o’er the sea of forest that embrowned The landscape. The overarching firmament, The woody waste enclaspt with azure round, And yon bright sun, yon eagle soaring high, And yon lone wigwam’s smoke, are all that cheer the eye.

XIII.

At times the eagle’s scream trills from on high, At times the pecker taps the mouldering bough, Or the far raven wakes her boding cry,-- All else is hushed the vast expanses through: And, ah! they feel in the immensity Of pathless wilds, around them and below, As in mid-ocean feels some shipwrecked crew, Borne wandering onward in the frail canoe.

XIV.

And something was there in red Waban’s mien, Which all the morn had drawn our Founder’s eyes; For still he spake not, and was often seen To bend his ear, or start as with surprise; And now he stood, and, through the thicket’s screen, The shadowy prospect seemed to scrutinize, Then paused, unmoving, till a far-off howl Did, with long echoes, through the stillness roll.

XV.

It seemed a wolf’s, but Waban’s practised ear Could well the language of the forest tell; Again he paused, till from the distance drear, A faint response in dying cadence fell; Then spake in haste;--“Does not my sachem hear The voice of vengeance in the breezes swell? Come! Let us hasten to some friendly town, For murder tracks us through the forest brown!

XVI.

“Comrade to comrade calls!--the demon’s priest Is on our trail!”--No more the red man spoke; And this in Narraganset’s tongue exprest, To Mary nothing told, save as the look And earnest gesture may have stirred her breast With vague alarm.--But these she soon mistook As native to him in his wonted mood, And seemed confirmed as she our Founder viewed.

XVII.

He, in like speech, thus to his faithful guide:-- “Waban, be calm! wake not in bosoms frail A groundless fear; the tokens may have lied; Some other wolf may be upon our trail.” “Waban was hunted,” quickly he replied, “Far tow’rd the white man’s town through yonder vale; When there, the priest oft in his pathway stept, And watched the wigwam where the white hand slept.”

XVIII.

Sire Williams shuddered thus to realize What he had hoped was but his fancy’s fear; But yet he quelled each symptom of surprise, And thus to Waban: “Brother, be your ear Quick as the beaver’s, and your searching eyes Like to the eagle’s, and, the foeman near, Be your heart bolder than the panther’s, when He slays the growling bear and drags him to his den.”

XIX.

They left the steep, and, o’er the woodland plain, Passed with all speed the tender group could make; They ford the rivers, and their course maintain Through ancient groves, where, bare of broom and brake, The lurking foe might scant concealment gain; Waban still moved before, and nothing spake; His rapid glance scanned every thicket near, And when he paused he bent the listening ear.

XX.

Hour after hour the hunter thus did go, His eyes still roving and his ears still spread; His was a spectre’s glide;--but toiling slow, The lagging group pursued with faltering tread. At last he paused beneath a birchen bough, Where the dense alders formed a barricade, And there awaited them.--With anxious breast Williams approached, and thus his guide addrest:

XXI.

“Sees not my brother that the shadows grow Fast tow’rd the east, and that the forest brown Soon hides the sun?--then whither does he go To rest in safety till the morrow’s dawn.” Waban replied, “O’er yonder distant brow, Smokes in the vale Neponset’s peopled town; Thy red friends there will thee in safety keep, There may the white hand and the children sleep.”

XXII.

As thus he spake, across their pathway sped The startled partridge on her whirring wings; An arrow glanced--it grazed the hunter’s head, And the shrill forest with the bowstring rings; Red Waban’s eyes flash fire, and anger dread Flames in his blood, and every muscle strings; He stooped to mark where twanged that hostile bow, Then sprang from tree to tree, to reach the foe.

XXIII.

But ere he gained the purposed point, or viewed The fell assassin, the dry fagots’ crash, The waving coppice, and re-echoing wood, And sounding footfalls down the brakes that dash, Told him how vainly he his foe pursued, Or that pursuit were dangerously rash; And turning slowly he retraced his track, As his foiled leap the lion measures back.

XXIV.

The matron trembled, at the scene dismayed, For she had marked that hostile arrow’s flight, And Williams’ glance, and Waban’s mien betrayed That instant peril did their fears excite; And yet no frantic shrieks her acts degrade; A mother’s cares did every thought invite; And o’er the little scions of her blood She stretched her arms’ frail fence, and trembling stood.

XXV.

Calmer in bearing but with equal dread, The anxious father viewed the threatening harm; And, under God, what was there now to aid, Save his own firmness and red Waban’s arm? Behind--before--a dreary forest spread; Far was Neponset; here the dire alarm Of lurking savage; whilst the gathering night Still added horror to a dubious flight.

XXVI.

He paused a moment, and his means forlorn, To guard the onward march, he thus arrayed: The palfreys shielded by the burdens borne, On either side the moving group, were led, This by himself, that by his eldest born, Whilst nimble Waban scoured the threatening shade, And, keeping wary watch where’er he ran, Now fenced their flanks, now pioneered their van.

XXVII.

Like as the eagle,--when, from airy rest She wards her callow young with watchful eye, And sees the thickets move, by footsteps prest Within the precinct of her nursery,-- Wheels first on outstretched pinions round her nest, Searching below, then darts into the sky For far espial,--gathering every sound,-- And soars aloft or sails along the ground;

XXVIII.

So Waban watched and ran, while, moving slow, The anxious father aids the group along. In dreadful silence sleeps the forest now, Hushed is the prattling of each infant’s tongue; No sound is there, save that of footsteps low, Or of the breeze that sighs the leaves among, Or palfrey’s tramp--whose hoofs, with iron shod, Now clink on rocks, now deaden on the sod.

XXIX.

The sun at last sunk in the western shade, And the thick forest cast a darker frown, And now they paused amid an open glade, More than a bow-shot from the thickets brown; Then Father Williams to the hunter said, “Where! where! O Waban, is Neponset’s town?” And Waban answered, “Full one-half a sleep This march requires to bring us to its steep.”

XXX.

“Then here we rest, to take whate’er may come,” Our Founder said, “and do you all prepare To tread the realms that lie beyond the tomb; There are no foes or persecutors there, To drive the guiltless forth, and bid them roam In savage wilds; yet do not quite despair; When comes the foe,--and come he doubtless will, Brother! we must be firm--if needful, we must kill!”

XXXI.

“Waban is firm,” the hunter said, and smote His naked breast, and raised his stature high; “Yet hear the red man still;--not far remote Is Waban’s rock, where he is wont to lie When the far-striding moose has tired his foot, And night comes down, and tempests rule the sky; There may we rest; the foe’s approach is hard But by one pass, and that will Waban guard.”

XXXII.

The place they sought;--’twas down a rocky dell, Where scarce the palfreys found a footing sure, Where deeper darkness from the forest fell, And thicker boscage did the pass immure; At last, before them, like a citadel, Rose a tall rock, whose frowning frontals lower Over a narrow lea, with brambles dense On either side like an impervious fence.

XXXIII.

“Here,” said the red man, (as he raised a mass Of vines that clustered down the rock’s descent,) “Here’s Waban’s cavern, here is ample space For thee and thine; in this rude tenement Ten hunters oft have found their biding place, Nor in it felt themselves too closely pent; Waban will now below the opening raise, In yon dry fagots’ heap, the mounting blaze.”

XXXIV.

“Stay! stay!” said Williams, “wouldst thou lure the foe? Wouldst start the flame to tell him where we sleep?” The hunter smiled: “My Sachem does not know How true the foe will to our footsteps keep; He hears, perchance, e’en now our accents low, Or marks us from some tree on yonder steep; Waban will wake the fire; ’twill serve to show His posture, numbers, and will aid our blow.”

XXXV.

Williams assented; and while Waban fired The arid fagots, he the burdens took From off the palfreys, that, o’erwrought and tired, Now stretched their toil-worn limbs and stoutly shook Their liberated frames, and fuller breath respired, And quiet grazed the lea. Then to the rock The father hastened with a blazing brand; His wife and children, linking hand in hand,

XXXVI.

Followed his steps. It was a cavern rude, Its floor a level rock, its vaulted roof Of granite masses formed, whose arches stood More firmly for the weight they propped aloof;-- And here and there upon the floor were strewed Extinguished brands, which, with like signs, gave proof That men had dwelt there;--then, through screening vines Sire Williams glances out and marks where shines,

XXXVII.

Full on red Waban’s face, the mounting blaze. Though half a bow-shot from the cavern he Stands at the fire, yet its bright sheen displays His hue and shape, and then could Williams see How well the hunter judged thus far to raise The burning pyre; no passage could there be For hostile foot, save by that glittering flame, Which well would light the arrow’s certain aim.

XXXVIII.

Such furniture, as for their strongest need The wretched exiles had themselves supplied, Was to the cave now brought, with bread to feed The little children clustering by the side Of their fond parents.--Then did thanks succeed To God who deigned such comforts to provide, And earnest prayers that His protecting might Would shield them through the dangers of the night.

XXXIX.

With trembling haste a slight repast they took, And to their several places then repaired; The mother sate deep in the rocky nook Beside her children, and their pallet shared; Red Waban sate upon a jutting rock, Hard by the cavern’s mouth, the pass to guard; While at the entrance, Williams listening stood, Screened by the vines, and every passage viewed.

XL.

Deep night came down o’er forest, vale and hill-- The dismal hootings of the darkling owl, The melancholy notes of Whip-poor-will, And the lone wolf’s far distant long-drawn howl, Answered at times by panther screaming shrill, Such hideous echoes through the forest roll, That Mary shudders, and, from transient sleep, The infants starting up for terror weep.

XLI.

But Williams listened with accustomed ear, The dread of man alone disturbed his breast; Hour after hour, unmarked by danger near, The pass he watches for the savage priest, And still, with eyes turned tow’rd the flame, doth hear Whatever steps the rustling leaves molest; And oft he thought that through the brake he saw The waving fox-tail of the grim Pawaw.

XLII.

At last within the hollow forest rose Strange sounds that were unmeaning to his ear;-- As if there human hands were breaking boughs Green with the verdure of the new-born year; Crash follows crash.--“Are these approaching foes? Do one or more their march thus pioneer?” No answer Waban made, but seemed to shrink Among the vines along the rock’s dark brink.

XLIII.

A moment more, and, bounding o’er the hedge, A monster trotted tow’rd the mounting flame; Then turned and bayed;--’twere doubtful to allege Dog, fox, or wolf, his aspect best became; Still did he howl, with still increasing rage; And Waban rose and gave his arrow aim, But ere its flight, a whistled signal rang; The hybrid turned, and to the forest sprang.

XLIV.

“The fell Pawaw! his dog!” red Waban cried, In tone suppressed, and hid himself again; And Williams feared he had too much relied Upon the courage of that dusky man; He took the hatchet from the hunter’s side, And dropt the feebler bludgeon from his span; “Thy sachem,” said he, “will himself essay To aid his warrior in the approaching fray.”

XLV.

“’Tis good!” said Waban, “so red sachems do-- But there! behold! behold! They come! They come!” And Williams looked, and there, the thickets through, Half in the light, half in the changeful gloom, The forest boughs seemed moving out to view, Branch heaped on branch, a weight most cumbersome For human feet, yet human feet, he knew, That burden bore, and with it dangers new.

XLVI.

Straight to the blaze they moved, and, dashing down The leafy branches on the mounting flame, Put out the light, and smoke and shadow brown, In total darkness, all the glade o’ercame; The mother shrieked; the father, with a groan, Heard the wild cry, and stayed her sinking frame; And both now felt that, with that smothered ray, The last faint trembling hope had died away.

XLVII.

A fearful growl, close to the cavern’s vent, First broke the thrall of horror and surprise; And, by the gleam the smouldering embers sent, That canine hybrid, shooting from his eyes A baleful glare, crouched seemingly intent On the scared infants as his famine’s prize; The father drove the hatchet to his brains, One yell he gave, and writhed in dying pains.

XLVIII.

Seeking the cavern’s mouth along the rock, Some groping hand the vine’s thick foliage stirred; “Where art thou Waban!” and the war-whoop broke; Palsied with fear the trembling mother heard; “Where art thou, Waban!” and, with horrid look, A giant savage through the foliage stared; But, at that moment, from his rocky mound Twanged Waban’s bow with sudden sharpest sound.

XLIX.

Back reeled the savage with a dismal howl, And on the earth like stricken bullock fell. But still new terrors filled the father’s soul; He heard another and more fearful yell; Across the glade a new assailant stole; The blaze reviving showed his movements well; And Williams sprang his warrior to sustain, Just as he strained the yielding bow again.

L.

But as he drew the arrow to the head, The cord snapt short; he dashed the weapon down, And leaping from the rock upon the glade, With glittering scalping-knife and haughty frown, Before the assailant stood, who paused, surveyed,-- Measuring the hunter’s height from heel to crown,-- Then, swift as thought, the vengeful hatchet sent; At Waban’s head the well-aimed weapon went.

LI.

But well the wary hunter knew his foe And read his murderous purpose in his eye; He marked the coming steel, and, bending low, Let it pass on and cleave the air on high; Behind him rings the cliff with shivering blow, And far around its scattered atoms fly; Then with wild yells they wave the scalping-knife, Together rush, and thrust and strike for life.

LII.

O! ’twas a fearful scene--a moment dire; For on the issue of that contest lay The lives of infants, mother, and of sire, And the fair fame that crowns a distant day. Soon closed the champions by the glimmering fire, Limbs locked in limbs in terrible affray; They writhe--they wrench--they stagger to and fro, Hands grasping hands that aim the fatal blow.

LIII.

Now struggling by the flames they past from sight, For Williams lingered yet to guard the cave; And there, enveloped in a deeper night, With fiercer fury did the contest rave;-- The blow, the wrench, the pantings of the fight, The crash of branches and of thickets gave A dreadful note of every effort made, Where life sought life within that shuddering shade.

LIV.

The mother sank beside the father, pale And scared; the children her affright partook; At times they raised the sympathetic wail; At times with breathless terror mutely shook. Williams peered out along the kindling vale; No sign of other foe there met his look; Then with a word that quick return presaged, He rushed tow’rd where the doubtful contest raged.

LV.

He passed the flame and paused--for on his ear There came, with one loud crash, a heavy sound; He listens still; and silence, sudden, drear, Reigns o’er the glade, and through the gloom profound. Who is the victim? Evil-boding fear Tells him that Waban gasps upon the ground; One bubbling groan, as if the life-blood gushed; A shuddering struggle then--and all was hushed.

LVI.

In dire suspense the anxious father stood, Yet did he still unmanly terrors quell; His hand, yet innocent of human blood, Now grasped the axe to meet the victor fell; When from beneath the arches of the wood, Rang the far-trembling, death-announcing yell, So like a demon’s issuing from his pit-- Who but that savage could the sound emit?

LVII.

Then moving slowly in the gloomy wood, Doubtful and darkling through the ghostly shade, A form approached, and as it onward trod, Appeared distinct upon the open glade; ’Twas Waban!--Waban bathed in hostile blood; And by the lock he held a trunkless head. He stooped beside the mounting blaze to shew, Still more distinct, his trophy to the view.

LVIII.

With lips still quivering, and with eyes unglazed, The reeking fragment seemed as living still; Fierce on the horrid thing the victor gazed, The battle’s wrath did still his bosom fill; His eyes looked fire, another yell he raised, That rang rebellowing from hill to hill; Then, by the long dark lock swung from the ground, He whirled on high the ghastly ball around.

LIX.

Around--around--still gathering force it went; Still on his sinews strained the whirling head, Till cleaving from the skull the scalp was rent, And through the air the ponderous body sped; Deep in the hollow woods its force was spent, Thrice bounding from the ground, then falling dead;-- He turned and spoke: “No more the babes shall weep! The grim Pawaw now sleeps! and Waban now can sleep!”

LX.

They passed the turf, as they the cavern sought, Where fell the body of the earliest slain;-- Said Waban, as he paused beside the spot, “The black Priest’s comrade never wakes again;” Then seized the body roughly by the foot, And dragged it, bleeding yet, along the plain Straight to the rocky steep, and o’er it dashed; It dropped in night; re-echoing thickets crashed.

LXI.

Then the rude victor washed the stains away, Cast him on earth, and soon deep slumber showed How lightly in his rugged bosom lay The horrid memory of that scene of blood;-- But Williams watched until the dawning gray, And Mary’s fitful sleep the scenes renewed, While the young dreamers in her circling arms, Oft shrieked and sobbed in slumber’s vain alarms.

LXII.

The morning dawns, and they their march resume; No perils now annoy their toilsome way; The night came down, and with its sober gloom Brought quiet sleep until the morning’s ray; Again they rose, and gained their joyous home On Seekonk’s marge, just at the close of day; And Him they blessed, who had in safety led Them through dire perils, to their humble shed.

CANTO EIGHTH.

[SCENE. The New Home in Seekonk’s Mead.]

Through Seekonk’s groves the morning sun once more Flames in his glory. Waving verdant gold, The boundless forest stands. Wild songsters pour, From every dewy glade and tufted wold, The melody of joy. From shore to shore The tranquil waters dream, and soul-like hold A mirrored world below of softest hue, With underhanging vault of cloudless blue.

II.