“Oft have I heard my hunter name with pride His long, deep, hollow, arrow-winged canoe; Now drag her from the fern to Seekonk’s tide, And bid her skim once more the waters blue; She loves to rove, and we must far and wide Seek other forests for a dwelling new; Our toils here end; a cloud from Wamponand Hangs o’er our glade, and blackens all the land.” LIX. A fickle race the red man’s kindred were, Free as the elk that roved their native wood, Here did they dwell to-day, to-morrow there, As want or pleasure ruled the changeful mood; And Waban loved adventures bold and rare, Nor heard with sorrow of a new abode; And forth he goes to seek his long canoe, And trim her breast to skim the waters blue. LX. The while the infant group, from noon to night, Passed here and there through all that cultured glade; And sighed and wept, by turns, or sobbed outright, As to its charms their last farewell they bade; “Here father labored--here he slept till light Renewed his toils,” they often thought or said; And still the springing tears suffuse their eyes, They dash them off--but still their sorrows rise. LXI. They plucked the blossoms from the blushing bush, They quaffed the waters from the purling rill, Their bread they scattered to the gentle thrush, That seemed half-conscious of the coming ill; The rabbit eyed them from his covert brush, Their crumbs supplied the little sparrow’s bill; And sadly then they sighed their last adieu, “Our little friends, farewell! we sport no more with you.” LXII. Meantime the parents in the cottage sate, Their bosoms heaving and their thoughts in gloom. “O! what,” cried Mary, “is our coming fate? And where, my husband, is our future home? Will not dire famine on our footsteps wait, And perils meet us whereso’er we roam? Our harvest gone, who now can food supply? Forced from this roof, where shall our children lie?” LXIII. “Trust we in God!” our pious Founder said; “Doubt not the bounty of His providence, Who Israel’s children through the desert led, And in all perils was there sure defence; He did not bid us this far forest tread, To leave us here in want and impotence. Warnings, my Mary, were most strangely given, Such as I sometimes deem were sent from Heaven! LXIV. “Well can thy mind that stormy night recall, The last in Salem that I dared abide,-- In fleecy torrents did the tempest fall, Our little dwelling reeled from side to side; The fading brands just glimmered on the wall, Alone I sate, my heart with anguish tried, When lo! a summons at the door I heard, Deemed it a wretch distressed, the pass unbarred. LXV.