Transcriber's note: Italic font is indicated by _underscores_. WHAT CHEER OR ROGER WILLIAMS IN BANISHMENT _A POEM_ BY JOB DURFEE “And surely betweene my friends of the Bay and Plimouth, I was sorely tost for fourteen weeks, in a bitter cold winter season, not knowing what bed or bread did meane.”--_Roger Williams’s Letter to Mason._ REVISED AND EDITED BY THOMAS DURFEE PROVIDENCE PRESTON & ROUNDS 1896 Copyright, 1896, By THOMAS DURFEE. _Snow & Farnham, Printers, Providence._ NOTICE. The Editor owes it to the reader to say that, in preparing the following poem for re-publication, he has ventured to omit some of the stanzas and to make changes in others. The stanzas were omitted because, in his opinion, they broke the continuity or retarded the flow of the narration, slackening the reader’s interest, and could be omitted with advantage to the poem. The changes have been mostly slight and formal, and, when more extensive, have been made to modify (not the meaning, but) only the expression; making it clearer or more direct, or giving it an easier metrical movement. PROVIDENCE, R. I., May, 1896. CONTENTS. INTRODUCTION vii WHAT CHEER 1 NOTES 177 APPENDIX 215 ADDENDA. LIFE’S VOYAGE 221 HYMN BY TWILIGHT 223 REYNARD’S SOLILOQUY 224 A SUMMONS TO THE COUNTRY 225 INTRODUCTION. TO THE REV. ROMEO ELTON, PROFESSOR OF LANGUAGES IN BROWN UNIVERSITY. What time, dear Elton, we were wont to rove From classic Brown along fair Seekonk’s vale, And, in the murmurs of his storied cove, Hear barbarous voices still our Founder hail; E’en then my bosom with young rapture hove To give to deathless verse the exile’s tale; And every ripple’s moan or breeze’s sigh Brought back whole centuries as it murmured by. But soon the transient dream of youth was gone, And different labors to our lots were given; You at the shrine of peace and glory shone,-- Sublime your toils, for still your theme was Heaven; I, upon life’s tempestuous billows thrown,-- A little bark before the tempest driven,-- Strove for a time the surging tide to breast, And up its rolling mountains sought for rest. Wearied at length with the unceasing strife, I gave my pinnace to the harbor’s lee, And left that ocean, still with tempests rife, To mad ambition’s heartless rivalry; No longer venturing for exalted life, (For storms and quicksands have no charms for me,) I, in the listless labors of the swain, Provoke no turmoil and awake no pain.