But chiefly did he this free converse hold With M’antonomi, Sachem young and brave, And great Canonicus, sagacious, old And in his speech deliberate and grave. One eve they sate--the storm without was cold, ’Twas ere the council their decision gave, And thus the talk went on among the three, The questions simple and the answers free. VII. MIANTONOMI. Why will my brother dwell amid our foes, Yet seek from us a peaceful neighborhood? May we not think he’ll bend their battle bows, And thirst like them for Narraganset’s blood? Why has he Seekonk’s eastern border chose, And not surveyed Mooshausick’s winding flood? Its banks are green,--its forests waving fair,-- Its fountains cool, the deer abundant there. VIII. WILLIAMS. Ne’er will I dwell among my brother’s foes,-- To make them friends is now thy brother’s toil; Too weak I am to bend their battle bows, Had I the heart for such unseemly broil. The forest fair that by Mooshausick grows, Would long withstand the hardy woodman’s toil. The Seekonk’s marge will easy tillage yield, And soon the spiry maize will clothe its field. IX. CANONICUS. How could my brother’s thoughts his friends offend? Why flies he to the red from faces pale? How can he still the nations red befriend? What can his speeches with his foes avail? No arms he bears, no Yengees him attend, How dares his foot to print this distant vale? The path was shut between the nations red,-- How dared my brother on that path to tread? X. WILLIAMS. The white man labors to enthrall the mind, He will not let its thoughts of God be free; I come the soul’s hard bondage to unbind, And clear her access to the Deity; The pale-faced foes whom I have left behind, Would still accept a favor done by me. I trusted God would guard his servant’s head, Open all paths, and soothe my brothers red. XI. CANONICUS. Thy generous confidence has on me won And oped my ears, to other Yengees deaf. Brother, the spirit of my son is gone-- I burned my lodge to speak my mighty grief; If thou art true I am not left alone, Some comfort is there for the gray-haired chief; If to thy words the fitting deeds be done, I am thy father, thou shalt be my son. XII. The kindest reader would fatigued complain, Should I recount each question and reply, That passed between our Father and the train Of barbarous warriors and their Sachems high; But though he languished o’er my humble strain, Till patience left or dullness closed his eye, To Williams it was not an idle song-- The dull reality did days prolong. XIII.