Then forth fared Waban to the winding shore, And quickly laid its shelly treasure bare, Nor failed the woody dingles to explore, And trap the partridge or the nimble hare; And soon beneath a beech, beside the door, On marshalled stones the blazing fagots are; And when with heat the pristine oven glows, Waban his tribute gives, and covers close. X. Meanwhile our Founder went from place to place, And did each plan of village grandeur name; This rising mound the future church should grace, Yon little dell the village school should claim; That sloping lawn the council hall should base, Where freemen’s voices should the law proclaim, And ne’er to bigot yield the civil rod, But save the Church by leaving her to God. XI. So pass the hours, till westward through the skies The sun begins to turn, and, savory grown, From Waban’s ready feast the vapors rise; The group beneath the beech then sit them down; “Thou kind and generous man,” our Founder cries, “Our brave defender! thy complexion brown Bars not thy presence;--sit thou at the board,-- Of these bright lands God made thy kind the lord. XII. “My valliant warrior like a Keenomp fought, And Chepian’s priest before his valor fell! But his white Sachem in the battle wrought Too little for a chief he loves so well.” “The dog--the dog! that had the children caught,” Exclaimed the red man, “does his valor tell; A manit-dog he was, for well he knew Whate’er the priest of Chepian bade him do. XIII. “The priest of Chepian and his comrade came To fight the white man and his warrior brave; The fox-eared demon sought for other game, And went to filch it from the rocky cave; My Sachem white a manittoo o’ercame, To demon dark a fatal wound he gave; Brave is my Sachem, for he nobly slew What Waban dreaded most,--that fearful manittoo!” XIV. “Brother,” said Williams, “under Power Divine, That shields the just man in dark peril’s hour, Thine was the victory, and the glory thine To quell Apollyon’s priest--a demon’s power! Henceforth the demon must his lands resign, And thou must be Mooshausick’s Sagamore, The right of conquest will do very well, When Hell assails us, and we conquer Hell. XV. “But might the choice of either blameless go, Mary! these fruits of suffering and of toils, And racking cares through fourteen weeks of woe, I’d prize far higher than the reeking spoils Of all the nations laid by Cæsar low, When he, the victor in Rome’s civil broils, Sate, like the Jove he worshipped, o’er a world Whose crowns were offered, and whose incense curled. XVI.