But have their mandate hither sent by me,
That thou to Boston presently repair;—
Where waits a ship now ready for the sea,
To carry back thy heresy and thee."
XI.
Williams replied, "Thy message is unkind,—
In sooth, I think it even somewhat rude;
The snow falls fast, and searching is the wind
And wildly howls through the benighted wood.
The path to Boston is a little blind,
Nor are my nerves in their robuster mood;—
My soul has seldom at her lot repined,—
But to submission now she's disinclined.
XII.
"A voyage to England, and to start to-night
And brave the ocean at this season drear?
'Twould scantly give the hardy tar delight,
Much less my consort and these pledges dear.
Go, and the Council tell, that we're not quite
In health to bear a trial so severe,—
That if we yield 'twill be to lawless might,
And not to their kind feelings or their right."
XIII.
"Much do I grieve," the elder then replied,
"To bear this answer to the Governor;
'Twill show that thou hast Church and State defied,
And will I ween make not a little stir;
And should a pinnace, on the morn espied
O'er yonder waters speeding, bring with her
A squad of soldiers, Underhill their guide,
Be not surprised, but—Williams, quell thy pride!"
