Their liberated frames, and fuller breath respired,
And quiet grazed the lea. Then to the rock
The father hastened with a blazing brand;
His wife and children, linking hand in hand,
XXXVI.
Followed his steps. It was a cavern rude,
Its floor a level rock, its vaulted roof
Of granite masses formed, whose arches stood
More firmly for the weight they propped aloof;—
And here and there upon the floor were strewed
Extinguished brands, which, with like signs, gave proof
That men had dwelt there;—then, through screening vines
Sire Williams glances out and marks where shines,
XXXVII.
Full on red Waban's face, the mounting blaze.
Though half a bow-shot from the cavern he
Stands at the fire, yet its bright sheen displays
His hue and shape, and then could Williams see
How well the hunter judged thus far to raise
The burning pyre; no passage could there be
For hostile foot, save by that glittering flame,
Which well would light the arrow's certain aim.
XXXVIII.
Such furniture, as for their strongest need
The wretehed exiles had themselves supplied,
Was to the cave now brought, with bread to feed
The little children clustering by the side
Of their fond parents.—Then did thanks suceeed
To God who deigned such comforts to provide,
And earnest prayers that His protecting might
Would shield them through the dangers of the night.
