Nor land nor dwelling let us think to gain
Until the greeting of Whatcheer! Whatcheer!
Our journey stays,—there, there is our abode;
Our anchor there, our Hope, Almighty God!"
LXXI.
Thus spoke our Sire, and now, with ready hand
And spirits lightened, Mary did prepare
For their departure to another land,—
Alas! they knew not how and knew not where.
At eventide, red Waban from the strand,
The children from the glade, with cheerless air
Revisited the cot.—One more sad night,
And thence they journey at the rising light.
LXII.
Upon the cottage roof the Whip-poor-will
That night sang mournful to the conscious glade;
The lonely owl forsook her valley still,
And perched and hooted in the neighboring shade;
The wolf returned, and lapped the purling rill,
Sate on its marge, and at the cottage bayed;
From all its howling depths the desert came,
And seemed its lost dominion to reclaim.
