LXIII.
"'Twere hard to tell my brother of the woods
What cause has forced his pale-faced brother here,
The red and white men have their different moods,
And Narraganset's tongue lacks terms, I fear,
To tell the strifes among white multitudes—
Strifes yet unknown within these forests drear,
Where undisturbed ye worship various gods,
And persecution leave to white abodes.
LXIV.
"Let it suffice, (for weary is the night,)
That late across the mighty lake I came,
Seeking protection here of brethren white,
From those pale chiefs who had, with scourge and flame,
Driven them as me o'er sea in dangerous flight;—
Our wrongs, as our offenses, were the same:
God we had worshipped as to us seemed right,
And roused the vengeance of our men of might.
LXV.
"My brethren then had persecution fled,
And much I hoped with them a home to find;
But to our common God whene'er we prayed,
My honest worship did not suit their mind;
It differed greatly from their own, they said;
Their anger kindled, and, with speech unkind,
They drove me from my family and home,
An exile in this dreadful storm to roam.
LXVI.
"And now, my brother, through the wilds I go,
To seek some far—some lone sequestered glen—
Where burning fagot nevermore shall glow,
Fired by the wrath of persecuting men;
