Oft had thy friendship to the pale-faced throng,
That first Patuxet[1] peopled, reached my ear;
And a whisper told me thou wouldst still be kind
To those who fly, and leave their all behind."
XV.
Then rose the tawny monarch of the wood
To speak his memory, as became a chief;
And back he cast his crimson robes, and stood
With naked arm outstretched a moment brief;
Commanding silence by that attitude,
And to his words attention and belief.
Often he paused, his eyes on Williams fixt,
Whilst rang applause his weighty words betwixt.
XVI.
"Brother," he said, "full many a rolling year
Has cast its leaves and fruitage on the ground,
And many a Keenomp, to his country dear,
Has sate in death beneath his grassy mound,
Since first the pale Awanux kindled here
His council blaze, and so began to found
His tribes and villages, and far and near,
With thundering arms, to wake the red man's fear.
XVII.
"Brother, attend! When first Awanux came,
He was a child, not higher than my knee;
Hunger and cold consumed and pinched his frame;
Houseless on yonder naked shore was he;
Waves roared between him and his corn and game,
Snows clad the wilds, and winter vexed the sea;
His big canoe shrunk from the angry flood,
And death was on the barren strand he trod.
- ↑ Patuxet is the Indian name for Plymouth.
