Their little bows they twanged with threatening mien, Their little war-clubs shook to tell their ires; Their mimic scalping-knives they brandished keen, And acted o’er the stories of their sires; And had their fathers at this moment seen (For they were gone to Potowomet’s fires), Our Founder’s guide, they might have caught the tone Of their young urchins, and the hatchet thrown. LXV. Still village after village smoked; the woods All swarmed with life as forward still they fared; For numbers great, but not for multitudes So numberless, had Williams been prepared; Was it for him to tamper with the moods Of these fierce savages, whose arms were bared, Whose souls were ripe, and stalwart bodies trim, For the wild revelry of slaughter grim? LXVI. How could he hope a safe abiding place, Far in these forests, and his friends so few-- Among a wild and blood-besotted race, That naught of laws divine or human knew; Their wars proceeding oft from mad caprice, Their hearts as hard ’s the tomahawks they threw:-- Would his temerity by Heaven be blest? Would God nurse zephyrs on the whirlwind’s breast? LXVII. Whilst musing thus, and onward moving still, His soul o’ershadowed with suspicious fears, He gained the summit of a towering hill, And downward gazed.--Far stretched beneath appears A woodland plain; and murmurs harsh and shrill, As from accordant voices, on his ears Rise from the midmost groves, and o’er the trees, A hundred smokes curl on the morning breeze. LXVIII. And now to sight, through leafless boughs revealed, Now hid where thicker branches wove their screen, Bounding and glancing, in swift circles wheeled Men painted, plumed, and armed with weapons sheen, And flashing clear or by the trees concealed,-- Glimmering again and waved with threatening mien,-- The lifted tomahawks and lances bright Seemed to forestall the frenzied joy of fight. LXIX. Mixed with the sound of voices and of feet, Alternate slow and fast, the hollow drum Its measured rote or rolling numbers beat, And ruled in various mood the general hum;-- Now slow the sounds, now rapid their repeat, Till at a sudden pause, did thrilling come That tremulous far undulating swell, From out a thousand lips, the warrior’s yell;-- LXX. As ’twere from frantic demons. And the face Of Waban paled--then darkened as he said, “The Narragansets there their war-dance trace, They count our scalps, and name our kindred dead; This heart grows big--it cannot ask for peace; ’Twould rather rot upon a gory bed Than hear the spirits of its sires complain, And call for blood,--but ever call in vain.” LXXI.