Hard by yon little fountain clear and sheen, Whose swollen streamlet murmurs down the glade, Where groves of hemlock and of cedars green Oppose to northern storms a barricade, Stands the first mansion of his rude demesne, A slender wigwam by red Waban made; Their common shelter from the wintry blast; And place of rest when daily toils are past. VII. Yet from the storm he seldom shrinks away, With his own hands he labors now to rear A mansion, where his wife and children may, In happier days, partake the social cheer; And unrelenting bigot ne’er essay To make the free-born spirit quail with fear At threat of scourge, or banishment or death, For free belief, the soul’s sustaining breath. VIII. Day after day does he his toil renew; From dawn till dark still doth his axe resound, And falling cedars still the valley strew, Or cumber with their trunks the littered ground; The solid beams and rafters does he hew, Or labors hard to roll or heave them round; Or squares their sides, or shapes the joints aright To match their fellows and the whole unite. IX. The beams now hewn, he frames the building square, Each joint adjusting to its counterpart-- Tier over tier with labor does he bear, Timber on timber closes every part, Except where door or lattice to the air A passage yields,--and from the walls now start The rafters, matted over and between,-- Against the storm and cold,--with rushes green. X. Long did this task his patient cares engage, ’Twas labor strange to hands like his, I ween, That had far oftener turned the sacred page Than hewed the trunk or delved the grassy green; But toils like these gave honors to the sage; The axe and spade in no one’s hands are mean, And least of all in thine, that toiled to clear The mind’s free march--Illustrious Pioneer! XI. His cottage finished, he proceeds to rear A strong rude paling round that verdant glade His field and garden soon will flourish there, And wild marauders may their fruits invade; His maize may be a banquet for the bear, And herds of deer may on his herbage tread; But little thinks he that intruders worse Than these will enter and his labors curse. XII. Now milder spring ushers its April showers, And up fair Seekonk woos the southern breeze; The birds are singing in their woodland bowers, Green grows the ground and budding are the trees The purple violets and wild strawberry flowers Invite the visits of the murmuring bees; And down the glade the twittering swallow slips, And in the stream her nimble pinions dips. XIII.