IV.

The busy house-wife guarded well the door,
That night, against the gathering winter storm-
Did the rude walls of all the cot explore

Where'er the snow-gust might a passage form; And to the couch of age and childhood bore With anxious care the mantle thick and warm; And then of fuel gathered ample store,

And bade the blaze up the rude chimney roar.

V.

On this drear night was Williams seated by
His blazing hearth, his family beside,
And from his consort often burst the sigh,
As still her task of needle-work she plied;
And, from the lashes of her azure eye,

She often brushed the starting tear aside-
At spring's approach they savage wilds must try:
Such was the sentence of stern bigotry!

VI.

Beside the good-man lay his Bible's fair

Broad open page upon the accustomed stand, And many a passage had he noted there,

Of Israel wandering the wild wastes of sand, And each assurance had he marked with care,

Made by Jehovah of the promised land; And from the sacred page he learned to dare The exile's fate in wilderness afar.

VII.

Whilst pondered he the sacred volume o'er,
And often told, to cheer his consort's breast,
How, for their faith, the blest apostles bore
The exile's wanderings and the dungeon's pest,
A heavy foot approached his humble door,

And open wide abrupt an entrance prest;
And lowered an elder not unknown before,
Strong in a church ensphered in civil power.

IX.

"I come," he said in accents hard and stern,
"The Governor and Council's word to bear:
They are assembled, and with deep concern,
Hear thou abusest their indulgence fair;

Thy damned creed, with horror do they learn,
Still thou to teach thy visiters dost dare,
Who, smitten with thy sanctity, discern
Strange godliness in thee, and from us turn.

IX.

"Till Spring we gave; and thou wast not to teach Thy sentenced faith to erring men the while: But to depart, or, with submissive speech,

Regain the church and leave thy doctrines vile;
Of this injunction thou committest breach,

And Salem's church dost of her saints despoil:-
Plan, too, 'tis rumored by the mouth of cach,
A State, where Antichrist himself may preach.

X.

"From such a State our blessed elders see

Christ's church, e'en here, may the infection share; 'Tis therefore that the Council now decree,

That to the wilderness thou shalt not fare;
But 'tis their mandate, hither sent by me,
That thou to Boston presently repair—
A ship there waits, now ready for the sea,
Homeward to bear thy heresy and thee."

XI.

Williams replied, "Thy message is unkind

I e'en perchance may think it something rude; The snow falls fast and searching is the wind,

And wild the blast howls through the darkened wood.

The path to Boston too is somewhat blind,

Nor are my nerves now in their better mood

My soul has seldom at her lot repined.

But to obedience now she's disinclined.

XII.

"A voyage to England, and to start this night,
And brave the ocean at this season drear!-

'Twould scantly give the hardy tar delight,
Much less my consort and these pledges dear.—
Go tell the council that we are not quite
In health to bear a trial so severe,
And that if yield we, 'tis to lawless might,
And not to their kind feelings or their right."

XIII.

"Much do I grieve," the elder then replied,

"To bear this answer to the governor

"Twill show that thou hast Church and State defied,
And will I ween make not a little stir;
And should a pinnace, on the morn espied

O'er yonder waters speeding, hither skirr,*
With musketeers, and Underhill their guide,
Be not surprised, but-Williams, quell thy pride!"

XIV.

This said, he turned, and hastily withdrew,
And all save Williams left behind in tears;
His wife, still fair, now lost her blooming hue,
And nature yielded to her rising fears;
A giddy whirling passed her senses through-
She almost heard the blazing musketeers-
And trembling to her couch she flew to sigh,
And breathe such prayers as angels bear on high.

XV.

What could his firmness in this trying strait,

By Church and State with allied might assailed!
Should he forego the project of his state,

And leave the fagot to his race entailed ?—
His hoped-for home in wilderness of late,

At once heneath this blighting mandate failed,

And in his prospect he beholds await

The ready ship and ocean desolate.

XVI.

"O! for a friend," still as he paced the floor,
He often sighed, "now in my utmost need,
Whose counsels might some hidden way explore,
And give the glorious purpose to succeed;
But closed this night is every cottage door-
Yet there is one who is a friend indeed,
Forever present to the meek and poor-
I will thy counsels, mighty Lord, implore."

XVII.

Here dropt the friend of conscience on his knees,

And prayed, with hand and heart to Heaven upreared— "O, thou, that God who parted Egypt's seas,

* Skirr, obsolete-to scud or move hastily; used by Byron and Fletcher.

And cloud or fire in Israel's van appeared, Send down thine angel now, if so it please,

That forth from Church within the State ensphered

He guide my steps, to where there yet may be

A Church not ruled by men, but ruled by Thee."

XVIII.

Our Father ceased-The tempest roared around
With double fury at this moment drear,
The cottage trembled, and the very ground
Seemed e'en to feel the element's career;
With ice and snow the window-panes were bound,

Nor through their dimness could earth's robe appear,

While still by fits its way the tempest found
Down the rude chimney, with a roaring sound.

XIX.

As voice divine it did to Williams seem,

He sate a space within himself retired,
Then seemed to rouse as from a transient dream,
Just as the lamp's last flickering ray expired;
Around the room is shed a quivering beam,

Cast from the brands that on the hearth are fired; The tempest lulls apace, until he seems

To hear from neighboring woods the panther's screams.

XX.

"But what is this? a knocking at the door-
Some way-lost wanderer seeks a shelter here;
On this dark night amid the tempest roar,
Ah, wretched man, thy sufferings are severe !"
He raised the bar that made the pass secure,
And with the snow-gust from the darkness drear,
A stranger entered, whose large garments bore
No doubtful tokens of the tempest's power.

XXI.

Aged he seemed, and staff of length had he,
Which well a holy pilgrim had become,
But yet he sought, with solemn dignity

And easy step, the centre of the room:
Then by the glancing light could Williams see,
His flowing beard, white as the lily's bloom-
Age scored his temples, but still glancing free,
As from the imprint of a century,

XXII.

His eye beamed youth; and such a solemn mien,
Blent with such majesty and graceful air,
Our Founder deemed he ne'er before had seen

In mortal form; and at the offered chair
The stranger gently shook his brow serene,
And by the act revealed his long white hair,
As fell the fleecy covering from it clean,

Where down his shoulders hung its tresses sheen.

XXII.

And when he spake his voice was low and clear,
But yet so deeply thrilling was its tone,
The listening soul seemed rapt into a sphere
Where angels speak in music of their own.
"Williams," it said, "I come on message here,

Of moment great to this blind age unknown,
Thou must not dally, or the tempest fear,
But fly at morn into the forest drear.

XXIV.

"Thou art to voyage an unexplored 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 'What cheer! What cheer!'

Shall greet thine ears from Indian multitude,

Cast thou thine Anchor there, and trust in God."

XXV.

The stranger ceased, and gently past away,

Though Williams kindly strove him to detain-
"The night was dark, and wild the tempest's sway,
And lone the desert," but 'twas all in vain-
He only in soft accents seemed to say,

"Williams, perchance I shall behold again Thee when thy day shall more auspicious be,. When hope shall joy in hallowed victory."

XXVI.

The stranger past, and Williams, by the fire,
Long mused on this mysterious event:
Was it some scraph, robed in man's attire,

Come down to urge and hallow his intent?