Nor let the Historian blame the Poet here, If he perchance misdate the day or year, And group events together, by his art, That in the Chronicles lie far apart; For as the double stars, though sundered far, Seem to the naked eye a single star, So facts of history, at a distance seen, Into one common point of light convene. "Why touch upon such themes?" perhaps some friend May ask, incredulous; "and to what good end? Why drag again into the light of day The errors of an age long passed away?" I answer: "For the lesson that they teach: The tolerance of opinion and of speech. Hope, Faith, and Charity remain,--these three; And greatest of them all is Charity." Let us remember, if these words be true, That unto all men Charity is due; Give what we ask; and pity, while we blame, Lest we become copartners in the shame, Lest we condemn, and yet ourselves partake, And persecute the dead for conscience' sake. HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW. One of the earliest to feel the displeasure of the ruling powers of the Colony was Roger Williams, who came to Boston in 1631. He made himself obnoxious to the government by denying the right of the magistrates to punish Sabbath breaking; and continued to occasion so much excitement that it was decided to send him back to England. Williams got wind of this, and took to the woods in January, 1636. ROGER WILLIAMS [January, 1636] Why do I sleep amid the snows, Why do the pine boughs cover me, While dark the wind of winter blows Across the Narragansett's sea? O sense of right! O sense of right, Whate'er my lot in life may be, Thou art to me God's inner light, And these tired feet must follow thee. Yes, still my feet must onward go, With nothing for my hope but prayer, Amid the winds, amid the snow, And trust the ravens of the air. But though alone, and grieved at heart, Bereft of human brotherhood, I trust the whole and not the part, And know that Providence is good. Self-sacrifice is never lost, But bears the seed of its reward; They who for others leave the most, For others gain the most from God. O sense of right! I must obey, And hope and trust, whate'er betide; I cannot always know my way, But I can always know my Guide. And so for me the winter blows Across the Narragansett's sea. And so I sleep beneath the snows, And so the pine boughs cover me. HEZEKIAH BUTTERWORTH. Williams had a hard time of it. Thirty years later, he related how he was "sorely tossed for fourteen weeks in a bitter winter season, not knowing what bread or bed did mean." GOD MAKES A PATH God makes a path, provides a guide, And feeds in wilderness! His glorious name while breath remains, O that I may confess.