Our Father ceased.--The tempest roared around With double fury at this moment drear, The cottage trembled, and the very ground Did seem to feel the element’s career; With ice and snow the window-panes were bound, Nor through their dimness could the earth appear, And still in gusts the wind a passage found Down the rude chimney with a roaring sound. XVIII. A voice divine it did to Williams seem;-- He sat awhile within himself retired, Then seemed to rouse, as from a transient dream, Just as the lamp’s last flickering ray expired; Around the room soft falls a quivering beam, Cast from the brands that on the hearth are fired; The tempest lulls apace, until he seems To hear from neighboring woods the panther’s screams. XIX. “But what is that?--a knocking?--and once more? Some way-lost wanderer seeks a shelter here; Ah, wretched man, amid the boisterous roar Of snow and wind, thy sufferings are severe!” He raised the bar that kept the outer door, And with the snow-gust from the darkness drear, A stranger entered, whose large garments bore Proof of the storm in clinging snowflakes hoar. XX. Aged he seemed, and staff of length had he, Which well would holy pilgrim have become, But yet he sought, with quiet dignity And easy step, the centre of the room; Then by the glimmering light our Sire could see His flowing beard, white as the lily’s bloom; Age had his temples scored; but,--glancing free, As from the imprint of a century, XXI. His eyes beamed youth; and such a solemn mien, Joined with such majesty and graceful air, Our Founder thought he ne’er before had seen In mortal form; and at the offered chair The stranger gently shook his brow serene, And by the act revealed his long white hair, As fell the fleecy covering from it clean, Where down his shoulder hung its tresses sheen. XXII. And when he spake his voice was low and clear, But yet so deeply thrilling in its tone, The listening soul seemed rapt into a sphere Where angels speak in music of their own. “Williams,” it said, “I come on message here, Of mighty moment to this age unknown, Thou must not dally, or the tempest fear, But fly at morn into the forest drear. XXIII. “Thou art to voyage an unexploréd flood; No chart is there thy lonely bark to steer; Beneath her, rocks--around her, tempests rude, And persecution’s billows in her rear, Shall shake thy soul till it is near subdued: But when the welcome of ‘What cheer! What cheer!’ Shall greet thine ears from Indian multitude, Cast thou thine _Anchor_ there, and _trust in God_.” XXIV.