What Cheer; Or, Roger Williams in Banishment: A Poem

Job Durfee

What Cheer; Or, Roger Williams in Banishment: A Poem

EAN 8596547092193

DigiCat, 2022

Contact: [email protected]

Table of Contents

ADDENDA.

INTRODUCTION.

WHATCHEER.

CANTO FIRST.

CANTO SECOND.

CANTO THIRD.

CANTO FOURTH.

CANTO FIFTH.

CANTO SIXTH.

CANTO SEVENTH.

CANTO EIGHTH.

CANTO NINTH.

CANTO FIRST.

CANTO SECOND.

CANTO THIRD.

CANTO FOURTH.

CANTO FIFTH.

CANTO SIXTH.

CANTO SEVENTH.

CANTO EIGHTH.

CANTO NINTH.

APPENDIX.

ADDENDA.

LIFE’S VOYAGE.

HYMN BY TWILIGHT.

REYNARD’S SOLILOQUY.

A SUMMONS TO THE COUNTRY.

ADDENDA.

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INTRODUCTION.

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TO THE REV. ROMEO ELTON,

PROFESSOR OF LANGUAGES IN BROWN UNIVERSITY.

What time, dear Elton, we were wont to rove

From classic Brown along fair Seekonk’s vale,

And, in the murmurs of his storied cove,

Hear barbarous voices still our Founder hail;

E’en then my bosom with young rapture hove

To give to deathless verse the exile’s tale;

And every ripple’s moan or breeze’s sigh

Brought back whole centuries as it murmured by.

But soon the transient dream of youth was gone,

And different labors to our lots were given;

You at the shrine of peace and glory shone,—

Sublime your toils, for still your theme was Heaven;

I, upon life’s tempestuous billows thrown,—

A little bark before the tempest driven,—

Strove for a time the surging tide to breast,

And up its rolling mountains sought for rest.

Wearied at length with the unceasing strife,

I gave my pinnace to the harbor’s lee,

And left that ocean, still with tempests rife,

To mad ambition’s heartless rivalry;

No longer venturing for exalted life,

(For storms and quicksands have no charms for me,)

I, in the listless labors of the swain,

Provoke no turmoil and awake no pain.

To drive the team afield and guide the plough,

Or lead the herds to graze the dewy mead,

Wakes not the glance of lynx-eyed rival now,

And makes no heart with disappointment bleed;

Once more I joy to see the rivers flow.

The lambkins sport, and brindled oxen feed,

And o’er the tranquil soul returns the dream,

Which once she cherished by fair Seekonk’s stream.

And when stern winter breathes the chilling storm,

And night comes down on earth in mantle hoar,

I guide the herds and flocks to shelter warm,

And sate their hunger from the gathered store;

Then round the cottage hearth the circle form

Of childhood lovelier than the vernal flower,

Partake its harmless glee and prattle gay,

And soothe my soul to tune the artless lay.

Thus were the numbers taught at first to flow,

Scarce conscious that they bore a tale along;

Beneath my hand still would the pages grow,—

They were not labor, but the joy of song;

Still every line would unsung beauties show

In Williams’ soul, and still the strain prolong;

Till, all in rapture with the theme sublime,

My thoughts spontaneous sought the embodying rhyme.

No man was he of heart with love confined,

With blessings only for his bosom friend,—

His glowing soul embraced the human kind,—

He toiled and suffered for earth’s farthest end.

Touched by the truths of his unyielding mind,

The human soul did her long bondage rend;

Stern Persecution paused—blushed—dropped the rod:

He strove like man, but conquered like a God.

And now, my Elton, as in hours of ease,

With aimless joy I filled this frail balloon,

So like blind impulse bids me trust the breeze,

And soar on dancing winds to fate unknown;

And be my lot whatever chance decrees—

Let gales propitious gently waft me on,

Or tempests dash far down oblivious night,—

Whate’er the goal, I tempt the heedless flight.

Tiverton, R. I., September, 1832.

WHATCHEER.

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CANTO FIRST.

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[Scenes. The Fireside at Salem—The Wilderness—The Wigwam.]

I sing of trials, toils and sufferings great,

Which Father Williams in his exile bore,

That he the conscience-bound might liberate,

And to the soul her sacred rights restore;—

How, after flying persecution’s hate,

And roving long by Narraganset’s shore,

In lone Mooshausick’s vale at last he sate,

And gave soul-liberty her Guardian State.

II.

He was a man of spirit true and bold;

Fearless to speak his thoughts whate’er they were;

His frame, though light, was of an iron mould,

And fitted well fatigue and change to bear;

For God ordained that he should breast the cold

And wet of northern wilds in winter drear,

And of red savages protection pray

From Christians, but—more savage still than they.

III.

Midwinter reigned; and Salem’s infant town,

Where late were cleft the forests’ skirts away,

Showed its low roofs, and, from their thatching brown

Sheeted with ice, sent back the sun’s last ray;

The school-boys left the slippery hillock’s crown,

So keen the blast came o’er the eastern bay;

And pale in vapors thick the sun went down,

And the glassed forest cast a sombre frown.

IV.

The busy house-wife guarded well the door,

That night, against the gathering winter storm—

Did well the walls of all the cot explore

Where’er the snow-gust might a passage form;

And to the couch of age and childhood bore

With anxious care the mantle thick and warm;

And then of fuel gathered ample store,

And bade the blaze up the rude chimney roar.

V.

That night sate Williams, with his children, by

The blazing hearth—his consort at his side;

And often did she heave the heavy sigh

As still her task of needle-work she plied;

And, from the lashes of her azure eye,

Did often brush the starting tear aside;

For they at Spring the savage wilds must try,—

’Twas so decreed by ruthless bigotry.

VI.

Beside the good-man lay his Bible’s fair

Broad open page upon the accustomed stand,

And many a passage had he noted there,

Of Israel wandering o’er the desert’s sand,

And each assurance he had marked with care,

Made by Jehovah, of the promised land;

And from the sacred page had learned to dare

The exile’s peril, and his ills to bear.

VII.

And, while the holy book he pondered o’er,

And often told, to cheer his consort’s breast,

How, for their faith, the blest apostles bore

The exile’s wanderings and the dungeon’s pest,

A heavy foot approached his humble door,

And some one, opening, instant entrance prest:

A well-known elder was he, strict and sour,—

Strong in a church ensphered in civil power.

VIII.

I come, he said in accents hard and stern,

"The Governor’s and Council’s word to bear:

They are convened, and hear, with deep concern,

That thou abusest their indulgence fair;

Ay, with resentment and abhorrence learn

That still thou dost thy specious tenets share

With visitors, who, smit therewith, discern

Strange godliness in thee, and from us turn.

IX.

"Till spring we gave; and thou wast not to teach

Thy interdicted doctrines here the while,

But curb thy tongue, or with submissive speech

The church regain, and quit thy errors vile;

Of which condition thou committest breach,

And dost her saints from Salem’s church beguile;

And plan, ’tis said, to found in easy reach

A State where Antichrist himself may preach.

X.

"From such a State our blessed elders see

The church may, even here, the infection share;

And therefore have the Council made decree,

That to the wilderness thou shalt not fare;

But have their mandate hither sent by me,

That thou to Boston presently repair;—

Where waits a ship now ready for the sea,

To carry back thy heresy and thee."

XI.

Williams replied, "Thy message is unkind,—

In sooth, I think it even somewhat rude;

The snow falls fast, and searching is the wind

And wildly howls through the benighted wood.

The path to Boston is a little blind,

Nor are my nerves in their robuster mood;—

My soul has seldom at her lot repined,—

But to submission now she’s disinclined.

XII.

"A voyage to England, and to start to-night

And brave the ocean at this season drear?

’Twould scantly give the hardy tar delight,

Much less my consort and these pledges dear.

Go, and the Council tell, that we’re not quite

In health to bear a trial so severe,—

That if we yield ’twill be to lawless might,

And not to their kind feelings or their right."

XIII.

Much do I grieve, the elder then replied,

"To bear this answer to the Governor;

’Twill show that thou hast Church and State defied,

And will I ween make not a little stir;

And should a pinnace, on the morn espied

O’er yonder waters speeding, bring with her

A squad of soldiers, Underhill their guide,

Be not surprised, but—Williams, quell thy pride!"

XIV.

This said, he turned and hastily withdrew,

And all but Williams now were left in tears;

His wife, still comely, lost her blooming hue,

Her nature yielding to her rising fears;

A giddy whirling passed her senses through,

She almost heard the blazing musketeers,

And trembling to her couch retired to sigh,

And seek relief in prayer to God on high.

XV.

O! for a friend, still as he paced the floor,

Sire Williams cried, "a friend in my sore need,

To help me now some hidden way explore,

By which my glorious purpose may succeed;

But closed to-night is every cottage door;

Yet there is one who is a friend indeed,

Forever present to the meek and poor—

I will thy counsels, mighty Lord, implore."

XVI.

Here dropt the friend of conscience on his knees,

And prayed, with hand and heart to Heaven upreared;

"O, thou, the God who parted Egypt’s seas,

And cloud or fire in Israel’s van appeared,

Send down thine angel now, if so it please,

That forth from Church within the State ensphered

He guide my steps, to where there yet may be

A Church not ruled by men, but ruled by Thee."

XVII.

Our Father ceased.—The tempest roared around

With double fury at this moment drear,

The cottage trembled, and the very ground

Did seem to feel the element’s career;

With ice and snow the window-panes were bound,

Nor through their dimness could the earth appear,

And still in gusts the wind a passage found

Down the rude chimney with a roaring sound.

XVIII.

A voice divine it did to Williams seem;—

He sat awhile within himself retired,

Then seemed to rouse, as from a transient dream,

Just as the lamp’s last flickering ray expired;

Around the room soft falls a quivering beam,

Cast from the brands that on the hearth are fired;

The tempest lulls apace, until he seems

To hear from neighboring woods the panther’s screams.

XIX.

"But what is that?—a knocking?—and once more?

Some way-lost wanderer seeks a shelter here;

Ah, wretched man, amid the boisterous roar

Of snow and wind, thy sufferings are severe!"

He raised the bar that kept the outer door,

And with the snow-gust from the darkness drear,

A stranger entered, whose large garments bore

Proof of the storm in clinging snowflakes hoar.

XX.

Aged he seemed, and staff of length had he,

Which well would holy pilgrim have become,

But yet he sought, with quiet dignity

And easy step, the centre of the room;

Then by the glimmering light our Sire could see

His flowing beard, white as the lily’s bloom;

Age had his temples scored; but,—glancing free,

As from the imprint of a century,

XXI.

His eyes beamed youth; and such a solemn mien,

Joined with such majesty and graceful air,

Our Founder thought he ne’er before had seen

In mortal form; and at the offered chair

The stranger gently shook his brow serene,

And by the act revealed his long white hair,

As fell the fleecy covering from it clean,

Where down his shoulder hung its tresses sheen.

XXII.

And when he spake his voice was low and clear,

But yet so deeply thrilling in its tone,

The listening soul seemed rapt into a sphere

Where angels speak in music of their own.

Williams, it said, "I come on message here,

Of mighty moment to this age unknown,

Thou must not dally, or the tempest fear,

But fly at morn into the forest drear.

XXIII.

"Thou art to voyage an unexploréd flood;

No chart is there thy lonely bark to steer;

Beneath her, rocks—around her, tempests rude,

And persecution’s billows in her rear,

Shall shake thy soul till it is near subdued:

But when the welcome of ‘What cheer! What cheer!’

Shall greet thine ears from Indian multitude,

Cast thou thine Anchor there, and trust in God."

XXIV.

The stranger ceased, and gently past away,

Though Williams to retain him still was fain;

"The night was dark, and wild the tempest’s sway,

And lone the desert," but ’twas all in vain;

He only in soft accents seemed to say,

"Perchance I may behold thee yet again,

What time thy day shall more auspicious be,

And hope shall turn to joy in victory."

XXV.

The stranger past, and Williams, by the fire,

Long mused on this mysterious event:

Was it some seraph, robed in man’s attire,

Come down to urge and hallow his intent?—

To counsel—kindle—and his breast inspire

With words of high prophetic sentiment?

Or had he dreamed and in his mind, as clear

As if in corporal presence, seen the seer?

XXVI.

’Twas strange—mysterious! Yet, if dream it were,

’Twas such as chosen men of old had known,

When Jacob saw the heaven-ascending stair,

And Joseph hoarded for the dearth foreshown.

Ah! did the Omniscient hear his earnest prayer,

And did e’en Heaven the glorious project own!

Then would he, by the morrow’s earliest ray,

Unto the distant forest make his way.

XXVII.

He sought for rest, but feverous was his plight

For peaceful and refreshing sleep, I trow;

Still mused he on the morrow’s toilsome flight,

Through unknown wilds and trackless wastes of snow;

How to elude the persecutor’s sight,

Or shun the eager quest of following foe,

Tasked his invention with no labor light—

And long, and slow, and lagging was the night.

XXVIII.

And if by fits came intervening sleep,

Through deserts wild and rugged roved his soul,

Here rose the rock—there sunk the headlong steep,

And fiercely round him seemed the storm to howl;

The while from sheltered glen his foes would peep

With taunts and jeers, and with revilings foul

Scoff at his efforts; and their clamors deep

Came mingled with that awful tempest’s sweep.

XXIX.

Morn came at last; and by the dawning day,

Our Founder rose his secret flight to take;

His wife and infant still in slumber lay;—

And shall he now that blissful slumber break?

Oh, yes, for he believes that trials may,

Within the mind, its mightier powers awake,

And that the storms, which gloom the pilgrim’s way,

Prepare the soul for her eternal day.

XXX.

Mary! (she woke) "prepare the meet attire,

My pocket-compass and my mantle strong,

My flint and steel to yield the needful fire,

Food for a week, if that be not too long;

My hatchet, too—its service I require

To clip my fuel desert wilds among;

With these I go to found, in forests drear,

A State where none shall persecution fear."

XXXI.

"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