No sound is there, save that of footsteps low,
Or of the breeze that sighs the leaves among,
Or palfrey's tramp—whose hoofs, with iron shod,
Now clink on rocks, now deaden on the sod.
XXIX.
The sun at last sunk in the western shade,
And the thick forest cast a darker frown,
And now they paused amid an open glade,
More than a bow-shot from the thickets brown;
Then Father Williams to the hunter said,
"Where! where! O Waban, is Neponset's town?"
And Waban answered, "Full one-half a sleep
This march requires to bring us to its steep."
XXX.
"Then here we rest, to take whate'er may come,"
Our Founder said, "and do you all prepare
To tread the realms that lie beyond the tomb;
There are no foes or persecutors there,
To drive the guiltless forth, and bid them roam
In savage wilds; yet do not quite despair;
When comes the foe,—and come he doubtless will,
Brother! we must be firm—if needful, we must kill!"
XXXI.
"Waban is firm," the hunter said, and smote
His naked breast, and raised his stature high;
"Yet hear the red man still;—not far remote
Is Waban's rock, where he is wont to lie
When the far-striding moose has tired his foot,
And night comes down, and tempests rule the sky;
There may we rest; the foe's approach is hard
But by one pass, and that will Waban guard."
