XXXIX.
Our Founder pondered on the Elder's word;
What could this dark portentous message be,
With its delivery until morn deferred,
Lest it should mar night's hospitality.
The wrath of Plymouth he had not incurred,
He with her Winslow was in amity;
Then what strange message had the Elder borne,
That utterance sought, and yet was hushed till morn!
XL.
This cause, mysterious, darkling, undefined,
Did by degrees each cheerful thought efface,
And poured portentous glooms along his mind,
That seemed reflected by each friendly face;
The matron sighed, and childhood disinclined
To mirth or sport, sought slumber's soft embrace,
And soon the gathered night did all dispose,
To shun their boding thoughts in dull repose.
XLI.
Morn comes again;—the inmates of the cot
Rise from scant slumber, and their guest they greet;
"Williams," he said, "it is my thankless lot,
Thee with no pleasant message now to meet;
Nor hath our Winslow in his charge forgot
(For his behest I bear and words repeat)
His former friendship, but right loth is he
To vex his neighbors by obliging thee.
XLII.
"In short, thou art on Plymouth's own domain;
Beyond the Seekonk is the forest free,—
This must thou leave, but there thou mayst maintain
Thy State unharmed, and still our neighbor be;
