But little did he think the torrent's will
Would ever yield so far to human laws,
As from the maid the spindle to receive
And spin for her, and her fair raiment weave.
LXXI.
Reluctantly he left the scene, and fast
Down Seekonk's eastern bank pursued his way,
Seeking for Waban's meads; yet often cast
His glances o'er the river, where the gray
Primeval giants, meet for keel or mast,
Stood, towering and distinct, in proud array;
And wore to his presaging eyes the air
Of lofty ships and stately mansions fair.
LXXII.
Still onward, by the eastern bank he sped;
Here stretched the thicket deep, there swampy fen,
Here sunk the vale, there rose the hillock's head;
Oaks crowned the mound, and cedars gloomed the glen,
Where'er he moved;—at length his footsteps led
Where a bright fountain, sparkling like a gem,
Burst from the caverned cliff, and, glittering, wound
Its copious streamlet, with a murmuring sound,
LXXIII.
Far down the glade; and groves of cedars green,
With woven branches on the winter side,
Repelled the northern storm, whilst clear and sheen,
Crisped by its pebbly bed, the glancing tide
Gleamed in the sun, or darkened where the screen
Of boughs o'erhung its music-murmuring glide;—
It laughed along;—and its broad Southern glade
Was bordered deep by woods of massy shade.
