“My brother gives with palm expanded wide,” The Sachem said, “but with a closing hand Our gifts are half received and half denied; Ha! was he born in the white stranger’s land? My brother’s corn shall wave by Seekonk’s tide-- My brother’s town shall on its margin stand; And on the deer-skin, tested by my bow, My painted voice shall talk, and to far ages go.” LXXVIII. While thus they spake, the sun declining low, In Narraganset’s shades, half veiled his light; On rapid pinions did the dark winged crow And broad plumed eagle speed their homeward flight; Warned by the signs, the twain, descending slow, In converse grave, pass down the wooded height; And, in the Sachem’s sylvan palace, share Respite from hunger, toil, and present care. CANTO SIXTH. [SCENE. Seekonk’s Mead, or Place of the First Settlement.] The winds of March o’er Narraganset’s bay Move in their strength--the waves with foam are white; O’er Seekonk’s tide the tossing branches play, The woods roar o’er resounding plain and height; ’Twixt sailing clouds, the sun’s inconstant ray But glances on the scene--then fades from sight; The frequent showers dash from the passing clouds; The hills are peeping through their wintry shrouds. II. Dissolving snows each downward channel fill, Each swollen brook a foaming torrent brawls, Old Seekonk murmurs, and from every hill Answer aloud the coming waterfalls; Deep-voiced Pawtucket thunders louder still,-- To dark Mooshausick joyously he calls, Who breaks his bondage, and through forests brown Murmurs the hoarse response and rolls his tribute down. III. But hark! that sound, above the cataracts And hollow winds in this wild solitude, Seems passing strange.--Who with the laboring axe, On Seekonk’s eastern marge, invades the wood? Stroke follows stroke;--some sturdy hind attacks Yon ancient groves, which from their birth have stood Unmarred by steel, and, startled at the sound, The wild deer snuffs the gales,--then, with a bound, IV. Vaults o’er the thickets, and down yonder glen His antlers vanish; on yon shaggy height Sits the lone wolf, half-peering from his den, And howls regardless of the morning light; Unwonted sounds and a strange denizen Vex his repose; soon, cowering with affright, He shrinks away, for with a crackling sound, Yon hemlock bows and thunders to the ground. V. Who on the prostrate trunk has risen now, And does with cleaving steel the blows renew? Broad is the beaver on his manly brow, His mantle gray, his hosen azure blue; His feet are dripping with dissolving snow, His garments sated with the morning dew;-- Our Founder is he, and, though changed by long And grievous suffering, steadfast still and strong. VI.