“If, then, my brother can subdue his foes By the white pipe, he will be very strong! The offending chiefs once more will bend his bows, And shout around his fire their battle song; No more will Pequot harass his repose, Or Maqua yells resound these hills among. See not my brothers whence all this distrust?-- The belt between them and the Yengees rust. XL. “Hearken a space--Deem not the Yengee weak; Betwixt him and Haup’s chief the chain is bright; If thou on him a finger’s vengeance wreak, The conscious chain will vibrate to the White, And, roused from slumber, will the big guns speak, And flames will flash from every woodland height. Pause, brother, pause--and to the pale-faced train Extend thy friendship, and keep bright the chain. XLI. “But hearken still--Thy brother knows no guile; His tongue speaks truly what his heart conceives; Against the Pequots do your bosoms boil, And for the Pequot deeds Awanux grieves; Their hands are laden with the white man’s spoil, And crimsoned with the stain that murder leaves; Soon will the big guns to their nation speak, And, in their aid, may’st thou just vengeance wreak. XLII. “Thou would’st compel the Wampanoag’s aid To guard thy borders, and chastise thy foes; Will not my brothers let me them persuade To get them warriors armed with more than bows? Even Awanux, in his strength arrayed, Whose thunder roars and whose red lightning glows? Make him your friend and victory follows sure, And Narraganset rests in peace secure.” XLIII. The old chief downward gazed; the warriors round, Some in stern silence sate of doubtful mood, Some gave a scornful smile, some fiercely frowned, And others toiled to sharp their darts for blood; At length the Sachem, rising from the ground, With piercing eyes, full in the visage viewed Our anxious Founder.--“Thou dost speak,” he said, “The words of wisdom, but these ears are dead; XLIV. “Dead to a Yengee’s voice. When did the tongue Of the white stranger fail to speak most fair? When did his actions not his speeches wrong, And lay the falsehood of his bosom bare? Fain would I die in peace, and leave this throng To have their glory down the ages fare; But still I feel the stranger’s grasping hand, And still he soothes me with his accents bland. XLV. “If true he speak--that should his actions show; May not his heart be darker than yon cloud, And yet his words white as its falling snow? Still, if his speech were true, and not a shroud To hide dark thought, these gray hairs yet might go Down to the grave in peace--and of my blood Might all, whilst rivers roll, or rain descends, Live with the Yengee, kind and loving friends.” XLVI.