“What! goest thou, Roger, in this chilling storm? Wait! wait at least until its rage is o’er; Its wrath will bar e’en persecution’s arm From thee and me until it fails to roar. Oh, what protecting hand from lurking harm Will be thy shield by night?--What friendly door Will give thee refuge at the dire alarm Of hungry wolves, and beasts in human form?” XXXII. “Oh cease, my Mary, cease!--Thou dost complain That Heaven itself doth interpose to save,-- Doth wing this tempest’s fury to restrain The quest of foes, and prompt my soul to brave The desert’s perils, that I may maintain The conscience free against who would enslave;-- Wait till the storm shall cease to sweep the plain, And we are doomed to cross yon heaving main.” XXXIII. No more he said, for she in silence went From place to place until her task was o’er; Williams, the while, the fleeting moments spent To scrawl a message to delay the more-- Aye, to mislead the beagles on the scent, Till he could safely reach far wood or shore; And, haply, hope its vain illusion lent That friends might plead, and bigotry relent. XXXIV. Then he to Heaven his weeping spouse commends, And craves its blessing on his purpose bold;-- Still Salem lies in sleep, and forth he wends To breast the driving storm and chilling cold; While the lone mother from the window sends A look where all her aching heart is told; Dimly she marks him as his course he bends Across the fields, and toward the forest tends. XXXV. To show him parting, to the light she rears His child, yet ignorant of human woe; And soon its guileless silver voice she hears, “O! where is father going in the snow?” The tender accents start the mother’s tears, “He does, my child, to barbarous red men go, To seek protection from hard brethren here For thee and me, and all to him that’s dear.” XXXVI. So forth he ventured;--even like the dove That earliest from the window of the ark, Went forth on venturous wings, to soar above The world of waters heaving wild and dark O’er sunken realms of death, the while she strove Some high emergent mountain peak to mark, Where she might rest, beyond the billow’s sweep, And build herself a home amid the deep. XXXVII. The boundless forests now our Founder trod, And due southwestwardly his course he took; The lofty pines and cedars round him nod,-- Loud roars the tempest through the leafless oak; The snow lies deep upon the frozen sod, And still the storm’s descending torrents choke The heavens above; and only fancy could,-- So dim the view,--conceive the solitude XXXVIII.