XXVIII.
And if by fits came intervening sleep,
Through deserts wild and rugged roved his soul,
Here rose the rock—there sunk the headlong steep,
And fiercely round him seemed the storm to howl;
The while from sheltered glen his foes would peep
With taunts and jeers, and with revilings foul
Scoff at his efforts; and their clamors deep
Came mingled with that awful tempest's sweep.
XXIX.
Morn came at last; and by the dawning day,
Our Founder rose his secret flight to take;
His wife and infant still in slumber lay;—
And shall he now that blissful slumber break?
Oh, yes, for he believes that trials may,
Within the mind, its mightier powers awake,
And that the storms, which gloom the pilgrim's way,
Prepare the soul for her eternal day.
XXX.
"Mary!" (she woke) "prepare the meet attire,
My pocket-compass and my mantle strong,
My flint and steel to yield the needful fire,
Food for a week, if that be not too long;
My hatchet, too—its service I require
To clip my fuel desert wilds among;
With these I go to found, in forests drear,
A State where none shall persecution fear."
XXXI.
"What! goest thou, Roger, in this chilling storm?
Wait! wait at least until its rage is o'er;
Its wrath will bar e'en persecution's arm
From thee and me until it fails to roar.
