Part 9

And Williams issued from his humble cot, Not as of late in solitary mood, With cheerless heart and ill-foreboding thought, But with light step and breast of quietude; And by him came the partner of his lot, And their young children, with blithe interlude Of prattling speech, softening the graver talk Of the fond parents in their morning walk.

III.

In sooth his buoyant spirits seemed to spread O’er all about him their enlivening flush; Ne’er was the grass so verdant on the glade, Ne’er did the fountain sparkle with such gush; Ne’er had the stream such lovely music made, Ne’er sang so blithe the robin on the bush; The woodland flowers far brighter hues displayed, More sunny was the lawn, more dark the shade.

IV.

They walked and talked; he told his trials o’er; And often Mary brushed aside the tear, And oft they joined to thank kind Heaven once more, That thus his sufferings were rewarded here; Then they would sit beneath the fountain’s bower, And woo the breeze, or smiling bend the ear To childly mirth, which, in its silver tone, Soothed the rude wilds with music erst unknown.

V.

And all was happiness,--security In blest seclusion. The rude storm seemed past, The bow of promise spanned their life’s new sky; No threatening cloud their prospects overcast,-- No shadow lowered; but Heaven with gracious eye Looked smiling down and blest their toils at last. Their Salem friends to join them soon will try,-- That they’re not here is all that brings a sigh.

VI.

Thus for a time did they anticipate The bliss which Heaven for pilgrims has in store, When their freed souls review their former state, And bygone pains enhance their joys the more; But yet one lingering fear of frowning fate, Our Founder’s bosom lightly brooded o’er-- No Indian throng, as promised by the seer, Had bid them welcome with Whatcheer! Whatcheer!

VII.

But let it pass;--perchance it was a dream; His thoughts seemed wandering or disturbed at best, When stood or seemed to stand, in doubtful gleam, That form scarce earthly, and his ears addrest;-- Ay, let it pass--for ill would it beseem So staid a man to be at all deprest By visionary fears or superstitious dread, Whilst Heaven is showering mercies on his head.

VIII.

“Waban,” he said, “a generous feast prepare, We can be cheerful, and yet not be mad; The good man’s smiles may be a praise or prayer; The wicked only should be very sad. God feeds the birds, my Mary, in the air,-- Hear how they thank Him with their voices glad. The heart of man should nearer kindred own, Joy in his smiles and sorrow in his frown.”

IX.

Then forth fared Waban to the winding shore, And quickly laid its shelly treasure bare, Nor failed the woody dingles to explore, And trap the partridge or the nimble hare; And soon beneath a beech, beside the door, On marshalled stones the blazing fagots are; And when with heat the pristine oven glows, Waban his tribute gives, and covers close.

X.

Meanwhile our Founder went from place to place, And did each plan of village grandeur name; This rising mound the future church should grace, Yon little dell the village school should claim; That sloping lawn the council hall should base, Where freemen’s voices should the law proclaim, And ne’er to bigot yield the civil rod, But save the Church by leaving her to God.

XI.

So pass the hours, till westward through the skies The sun begins to turn, and, savory grown, From Waban’s ready feast the vapors rise; The group beneath the beech then sit them down; “Thou kind and generous man,” our Founder cries, “Our brave defender! thy complexion brown Bars not thy presence;--sit thou at the board,-- Of these bright lands God made thy kind the lord.

XII.

“My valliant warrior like a Keenomp fought, And Chepian’s priest before his valor fell! But his white Sachem in the battle wrought Too little for a chief he loves so well.” “The dog--the dog! that had the children caught,” Exclaimed the red man, “does his valor tell; A manit-dog he was, for well he knew Whate’er the priest of Chepian bade him do.

XIII.

“The priest of Chepian and his comrade came To fight the white man and his warrior brave; The fox-eared demon sought for other game, And went to filch it from the rocky cave; My Sachem white a manittoo o’ercame, To demon dark a fatal wound he gave; Brave is my Sachem, for he nobly slew What Waban dreaded most,--that fearful manittoo!”

XIV.

“Brother,” said Williams, “under Power Divine, That shields the just man in dark peril’s hour, Thine was the victory, and the glory thine To quell Apollyon’s priest--a demon’s power! Henceforth the demon must his lands resign, And thou must be Mooshausick’s Sagamore, The right of conquest will do very well, When Hell assails us, and we conquer Hell.

XV.

“But might the choice of either blameless go, Mary! these fruits of suffering and of toils, And racking cares through fourteen weeks of woe, I’d prize far higher than the reeking spoils Of all the nations laid by Cæsar low, When he, the victor in Rome’s civil broils, Sate, like the Jove he worshipped, o’er a world Whose crowns were offered, and whose incense curled.

XVI.

“And there is cause, I trow.--Who cannot see That a dark cloud o’er our New England lowers? The tender conscience struggles to be free; The tyrant struggles, and retains his powers. O, whither shall the hapless victims flee, Where be their shelter when the tempest roars? May it be here--may it be Heaven’s decree, To make its builder of a worm like me.”

XVII.

While thus he spake, the neighboring thickets shook, And from them issued one of mien austere; And Williams knew a Plymouth elder’s look, In doctrines stern--in practice most severe; His gait was slow, and loath he seemed to brook Such signs of comfort and of earthly cheer; And up he came, they scarce could reason why, Like a dark cloud along a cheerful sky.

XVIII.

The gloom that gathered o’er our Father’s breast, He strove with heavy effort to dispel; “Elder!” he said, “thou art an honored guest; To see our ancient friends should please us well; Thy journey long must give the banquet zest; Come and partake our sylvan meal, and tell The while what word or tidings thou mayst bear From Plymouth’s rulers and our brethren there.”

XIX.

“Williams,” he said, “I need no food of thine-- The wilds I thread not without store my own; But I would fain beneath that roof recline To-night, and rest my limbs till morn be shown;-- And there this eve some reasoning, I opine, (For all may err,) a weighty theme upon, May not be deemed amiss.--Perchance a light Will on thee break and set thy feet aright.”

XX.

“Elder, whatever themes,” our Founder said, “My scant attainments fit me to essay, Shall not avoidance have from any dread That thy strict logic may my faults betray; That ‘all may err,’ means that our friends have strayed, And not that we have wandered from the way; It is a maxim to perversion grown, And points to others’ faults to hide our own.

XXI.

“But as my Plymouth visitor requests, We’ll seek that cottage; I have called it mine, These hands have built it; but all friendly guests May call it theirs, and, Elder, it is thine While thou sojournest here. Whoever rests Beneath its roof may not expect a fine, A dungeon, scourge, or even banishment, For heresy avowed, or doubted sentiment.”

XXII.

They sought the cottage.--Its apartments rude, But still a shelter from the cold and heat, A cheerful fire and fur-clad settles shewed, And other comforts, simple, plain, and neat. The Elder paused, and all the mansion viewed, Then, with a long-drawn sigh, he took his seat, And briefly added--“Thou hast labored, friend, Hard--very hard! I hope for worthy end.”

XXIII.

He paused again, then solemnly began A sad relation of the Church’s state; O’er many a schism and false doctrine ran, That had obtruded on its peace of late; But most alarming was our Founder’s plan, To leave things sacred to the free debate; To make faith bow to erring reason’s shrine, And mortal man a judge of creeds divine.

XXIV.

“This simple truth no Christian man denies,” He thus continued, “that the natural mind Is prone to evil as the sparks to rise, And to the good is obstinately blind; Who then sees not, that looks with wisdom’s eyes, That God’s elect should rule the human kind? The good should govern, and the bad submit, And saints alone are for dominion fit?”

XXV.

Our Founder answered, “Art thou from the pit? Get thee behind me, if such thoughts be thine; Did Christ his gospel to the world commit, That his meek followers might in purple shine? He spurned the foul temptation, it is writ, And the Great Tempter felt his power divine; Art thou far wiser than thy Master grown, And spurn’st a heavenly for an earthly crown?”

XXVI.

“Nay--nay, friend Williams!” the grave elder cried, “It is that crown of glory to secure That the True Church should for her saints provide The shield of law ’gainst heresy impure; Quell every schism--crush the towering pride Of the dark Tempter, ere his reign is sure; For many finds he who are servants meet To sow for him the tares among the wheat.

XXVII.

“Men ever busy, searching for the new, Scanning our creed as if it doubtful were, These would we hold perforce our doctrines to, And the vain labor to convert them spare; God may in time their restless souls renew, And give them of his grace a saving share;-- Meanwhile our Church their errors would restrain, And to her creed their wayward minds enchain.”

XXVIII.

“A mortal thou!” our Founder here replied, “Yet judge of conscience,--searcher of the heart Thou, the elect?--but if it be denied, How wilt thou prove it, or its proofs impart? God gave to man that bright angelic guide, A reasoning soul, his being’s better part;-- He gave her freedom; but thou wouldst confine And cramp her action to that creed of thine.

XXIX.

“Who binds the soul extends the reign of hell; She’s formed to err, but, erring, truth to find; Pity her wanderings, but, O never quell The bold aspirings of this angel blind! God is her strength within, and bids her spell, By outward promptings, the eternal Mind: Long may she wander still in quest of light, But day will dawn at last upon a polar night.”

XXX.

“A dangerous tenet that!” the Elder said; “A fallen angel doubtless she may be; If truth she find by natural reason’s aid, It ever leads her to some heresy; Indeed, the truth too often is betrayed To minds ill-fitted for inquiry free; From bad to worse, from worse to worst we go, And end our being in eternal woe.

XXXI.

“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:

XXXII.

“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.

XXXIII.

“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.

XXXIV.

“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!

XXXV.

“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.

XXXVI.

“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.”

XXXVII.

“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.

XXXVIII.

“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.”

XXXIX.

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!

XL.

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.

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.