To drive the team afield and guide the plough, Or lead the herds to graze the dewy mead, Wakes not the glance of lynx-eyed rival now, And makes no heart with disappointment bleed; Once more I joy to see the rivers flow. The lambkins sport, and brindled oxen feed, And o’er the tranquil soul returns the dream, Which once she cherished by fair Seekonk’s stream. And when stern winter breathes the chilling storm, And night comes down on earth in mantle hoar, I guide the herds and flocks to shelter warm, And sate their hunger from the gathered store; Then round the cottage hearth the circle form Of childhood lovelier than the vernal flower, Partake its harmless glee and prattle gay, And soothe my soul to tune the artless lay. Thus were the numbers taught at first to flow, Scarce conscious that they bore a tale along; Beneath my hand still would the pages grow,-- They were not labor, but the joy of song; Still every line would unsung beauties show In Williams’ soul, and still the strain prolong; Till, all in rapture with the theme sublime, My thoughts spontaneous sought the embodying rhyme. No man was he of heart with love confined, With blessings only for his bosom friend,-- His glowing soul embraced the human kind,-- He toiled and suffered for earth’s farthest end. Touched by the truths of his unyielding mind, The human soul did her long bondage rend; Stern Persecution paused--blushed--dropped the rod: He strove like man, but conquered like a God. And now, my Elton, as in hours of ease, With aimless joy I filled this frail balloon, So like blind impulse bids me trust the breeze, And soar on dancing winds to fate unknown; And be my lot whatever chance decrees-- Let gales propitious gently waft me on, Or tempests dash far down oblivious night,-- Whate’er the goal, I tempt the heedless flight. _Tiverton, R. I., September, 1832._ WHATCHEER. CANTO FIRST. [SCENES. The Fireside at Salem--The Wilderness--The Wigwam.] I sing of trials, toils and sufferings great, Which FATHER WILLIAMS in his exile bore, That he the conscience-bound might liberate, And to the soul her sacred rights restore;-- How, after flying persecution’s hate, And roving long by Narraganset’s shore, In lone Mooshausick’s vale at last he sate, And gave soul-liberty her Guardian State. II. He was a man of spirit true and bold; Fearless to speak his thoughts whate’er they were; His frame, though light, was of an iron mould, And fitted well fatigue and change to bear; For God ordained that he should breast the cold And wet of northern wilds in winter drear, And of red savages protection pray From Christians, but--more savage still than they. III.