LXIV.
Beneath his feet, Aquidnay's north extreme
Displayed a cove, begemmed with islets gay;
Its silvery surface caught the setting beam,
Where'er the op'ning hemlocks gave it way;
Young nature there, tranced in her earliest dream,
Did all her whims in vital forms array;
Her feathered tribes round beak and headland glide,
Her scaly broods leap from the glassy tide.
LXV.
Out from Aquidnay tow'rd the setting sun,
Spread the calm waters like a sea of gold
Studded with isles, till Narraganset dun
Fringed the far west, and cape and headland bold,
With forest shagged, cast their huge shadows down,
And glassed them in the wave; while silence old
Resumed her reign, save that by times did rise,
On Williams' ears, the sea-birds' jangling cries.
LXVI.
Or the lone fowler, in his light canoe,
Round jutting point all warily did glide,
And pause awhile to watch, with steadfast view,
Where the long-diving loon might break the tide;
Then, noiseless, near the myriad seafowl drew,
And, baffled, saw them scur, with clangor wide,
Up from the foamy flood, and, mounting high,
Darken the day, and seek another sky.
LXVII.
Then looking north, from far could he behold,
Bright bursting from his source through forests dun,
Like liquid silver, broad Cohannet rolled
Tow'rd parent ocean;—there his currents run
