While thus he ponders, down the stream he sees, Where from th’ encroaching cove the wood retires, Dark wreaths of smoke rise o’er the lofty trees, And deems that there some village wakes its fires. “Waban,” he says, “seest thou yon dusky breeze? Say, from what town that curling smoke aspires? What valiant sachem holds dominion there? And what the number that he leads to war?” XV. “No town--the feast of peace!”--the red man cried, And still with brawny arms impelled the oar; “The clans from Narraganset far and wide, And every tribe from Pokanoket’s shore, There smoke the pipe, and lay the axe aside,-- The pipe my chief to Potowomet bore; Much they rejoice--their ancient hate forego, And deem the White Chief a good Manittoo.” XVI. A secret joy o’er Father Williams’ breast Stole like the fragrance of a balmy morn, That breathes on sleep with fearful dreams opprest, And wakes to its delights the wretch forlorn; His toils and wanderings were not all unblest; Some joy to others had his sufferings borne;-- But promised good brings doubt to the distrest, And thus still dubious he his guide addrest: XVII. “What singing bird has on the wandering wing Borne these strange tidings to my hunter’s ear? Where, on her pinions poising, did she sing, And with her faithless song his bosom cheer?” Waban replied, that he, while journeying Unto the white man’s town, through forests drear, Had on Cohannet’s banks his brethren met, Bound to the banquet of the calumet. XVIII. And now hoarse murmurs reach our Founder’s ear, Rising behind a cape from crowds unseen; Then by the eastern marge they swiftly steer, Till shows a tufted isle its welcome screen; Veering to this, they gain a prospect near Of the red hosts that throng the opposing green;-- Hundreds on hundreds did the fires surround, Ran on the shores or verdant banks embrowned. XIX. Along the strand their speed the racers try, And with their flying feet scarce touch the ground; From goal to goal the nimble hunters fly, Crowds shout above them, and the woods resound; Here their lithe limbs the swarthy wrestlers ply,-- They tug, they writhe, they sweat, crowds shout around; And there the circles watch the doubtful game, Or greet the victor with their loud acclaim. XX. Then Williams saw, beneath a shady bower, Miantonomi, Sachem young and brave, And Massasoit, Haup’s kind Sagamore, And old Canonicus, so wise and grave, Known by his peaceful pipe and tresses hoar, And by the scarlet coat our Founder gave; Round them their captains intermingled stood, All friendly now, though lately fierce for blood. XXI.