No pain is keener to the ardent mind, Filled with sublime and glorious intents, Than when strict judgment checks the impulse blind, And bids to watch the pace of slow events To time the action;--for it seems to bind The ethereal soul upon a fire intense, Lit by herself within the kindling breast, Prompting to act, while she restrains to rest. II. Two nights had passed, and, Waban lingering still, Williams began to doubt his steadfast faith; Quick was his foot o’er forest, vale and hill, His swerveless eyes aye keeping true his path. Why does he tarry? and the doubts instil Suspicions in our Sire of waking wrath Against his purpose in the barbarous clan, Whose fears e’en then on future dangers ran. III. But on the morrow’s morn, while Williams mused,-- Anxious and wondering at the long delay,-- The wigwam’s entrance, by the deer-skin closed, Abruptly opened, and a warrior gay Glided within it. To the sight unused Of Keenomp trimmed as for the battle fray, Williams, recoiling, gazed with fixed surprise On the fierce savage and his fearful guise. IV. The eagle’s plumes waved round his hair of jet, Whose crest-like lock played lightly o’er his head; On breast and face the war-paints harshly met, Down from his shoulders hung his blanket red, With seeming blood his hatchet haft was wet,-- Its edge of death was by his girdle stayed; Bright flashed his eyes, and, ready for the strife, Gleamed in his hand the dreadful scalping-knife. V. He placed a packet, bound, in Williams’ hands, And fired his pipe, and sitting, curled its smoke, The while our Founder broke the hempen bands, And gave the contents an exploring look. There found he, answered, all his late commands To Waban, ere the wigwam he forsook; And from his wife a brief epistle too, Which told her sorrows since their last adieu: VI. How came the messengers with arméd men To search her mansion for “the heretic;” How his escape provoked their wrath--and then How they condemned him for his feigning sick; But with the thought consoled themselves again, That he had perished in the tempest thick; God’s righteous retribution, setting free Their Israel from his heinous heresy. VII. But, as he reads, the warrior starting cries, “War! war! my brother.”--Williams drops his hand, And at the voice perceives, in altered guise Till now unknown, the generous Waban stand Erect and tall, with fiercely flashing eyes, The while he pressed the hatchet in its band; “Brother, there’s war!” “With whom?” our Founder said; “Have I not friends among my brothers red?” VIII.