XVIII.
The gloom that gathered o'er our Father's breast,
He strove with heavy effort to dispel;
"Elder!" he said, "thou art an honored guest;
To see our ancient friends should please us well;
Thy journey long must give the banquet zest;
Come and partake our sylvan meal, and tell
The while what word or tidings thou mayst bear
From Plymouth's rulers and our brethren there."
XIX.
"Williams," he said, "I need no food of thine—
The wilds I thread not without store my own;
But I would fain beneath that roof recline
To-night, and rest my limbs till morn be shown;—
And there this eve some reasoning, I opine,
(For all may err,) a weighty theme upon,
May not be deemed amiss.—Perchance a light
Will on thee break and set thy feet aright."
XX.
"Elder, whatever themes," our Founder said,
"My scant attainments fit me to essay,
Shall not avoidance have from any dread
That thy strict logic may my faults betray;
That 'all may err,' means that our friends have strayed,
And not that we have wandered from the way;
It is a maxim to perversion grown,
And points to others' faults to hide our own.
XXI.
"But as my Plymouth visitor requests,
We'll seek that cottage; I have called it mine,
These hands have built it; but all friendly guests
May call it theirs, and, Elder, it is thine
