And then once more did sleep our Founder's sense
And knowledge steal away till morn complete;
When he awoke and found his host was gone,
The lodge all silent, and himself alone.
LXIV.
His fast he broke with the accustomed prayer,
And trimmed him for his walk to Seekonk's side;
Calm was the morn, and pure the winter air,
As from the wigwam forth our Founder hied;
So tall the pines—so thick the branches were,
That, through their screens, the heavens were scarce espied;
But melting snows and dripping foliage prove
The South blows warmer in the fields above.
LXV.
Now from the swamp to upland woods he past,
Where leafless boughs branched thinner overhead,
And saw the welkin by no cloud o'ercast,
And felt the settled snows give firmer tread.
Now all was calm, no wild and thundering blast
Mixed earth with heaven, as through the boughs it sped;
And far as eye the boundless forest traced,
Glimmered the snow and stretched the lonely waste.
LXVI.
Onward he went, the magnet still his guide,
And through the wood his course due westward took;
Across his path, with antlers branching wide,
The red deer often from the thicket broke;
The timid partridge, at his rapid stride,
On whirring wings the sheltering bush forsook,
And the wild turkey foot and pinion plied,
Or from her lofty bough uncouthly cried.
