What cheer, or, Roger Williams in banishment. A poem

Front matter

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CANTO FIRST. I sing the trials and the sufferings great

Which Father WilliaiMS in his exile bore.

That he the conscience-bound might liberate,

And her religious rights the soul restore ; How, after flying persecution's hate.

And roving long by Narraganset's shore, In lone Mooshausick's vale at last he sate, And on Religious Freedom based our State.

II

He was a man of spirit tru€ and bold ;

Feared not to speak his thoughts whate'er they W( His frame, though light, was of an iron mould.

And fitted well fatigue and change to bear ; For God ordained that he should breast the cold

Of howling wilderness, in winter drear, And of red Savages protection pray From Christians, but — more savage far than they.

III. Mid winter reigned ; and Salem's infant town

Where late were cleft the forest's skirts away, ^Showed its low roofs, and from the thatching brown,

The sheeted ice sent back the sun's last ray ;

The school-boys left the village slippery down. So keen the blast came o'er the eastern bay, And the pale sun in vapors thick vv'ent down, And the glassed forest cast a sombre frown.

IV. The busy house-wife guarded well the door

That night, against the gathering winter storm- Did the rude walls of all the cot explore

Where'er the snow-gust might a passage form ; And to the couch of age and childhood bore

With anxious care the mantle thick and warm ; And then of fuel gathered ample store, And bade the blaze up the rude chimney roar.

V

On this drear night was Williams seated by His blazing hearth, his family beside,

And from his consort often burst the sigh, As still her task of needle-work she plied :

And, from the lashes of her azure eye,

She often brushed the starting tear aside —

At spring's approach they savage wilds must try :

Such was the sentence of stern bigotry !

VI

Beside the good man lay his Bible fair, .

With open page upon the accustomed stand, And many a passage had he noted there,

Of Israel wandering in the desert sand ; And each assurance had he marked with care,

Made by i ehov ah o^ the promised land; And from the sacred page he learned to dare The exile's fate in wilderness afar.

VII

Whilst pondered he the sacred volume o'er, And often told to cheer his consort's breast,

How, for their faith, the blest apostles bore

The exile's wandering? and the dungeon's pest,

CANTO FIRST. A heavy foot approached his humble door

And open wide abrupt an entrance prest ; And lowered a deacon he had known before, Strong in a church allied with civil power.

VIII

•'I come," he said in accents hard and stern, " The Governor and Council's word to bear,

They have assembled, and with deep concern.

Hear thou abusest their indulgence fair ;

Thy damned creed with horror do they learn, Still thou to teach thy visiters dost dare,

Who smitten with thy sanctity, discern

Some Godliness in thee, and from us turn.

IX

" Till spring we gave ; and thou wast not to teach Thy sentenced faith to erring men the while ;

But to depart, or with submissive speech.

Regain the church and leave thy doctrines vile,

Of this injunction thou coramittest breach,

And Salem's church dost of her saints despoil : — ■

Plan too, 'tis rumored by the rnouth of each,

A State, where Antichrist himself may preach.

X. " From such a State our blessed elders see

Christ's church, e'en here, may the infection share ;

'Tis therefore that the Council now decree.

That to the wilderness thou shalt not fare ;

But 'tis their mandate hither sent by me, That thou to Boston presently repair —

A ship there waits, now ready for the sea.

Homeward to bear thy heresy and thee.

XI. Williams replied, " Thy message is unkind

I e'en perchance may think it something rude, The snow falls fast and searching is the wind.

And wild the blast howls through the darkened wood.

The path to Boston too is somewhat blind,

Nor are my nerves now in their better mood — My soul has seldom at her lot repined, But to obedience now she's disinclined.

XII

A voyage to England and to start this night.

And brave the ocean at this season drear ! — *■

'Twould scantly give the hardy tar delight,

Much less my consort and these pledges dear. —

Go tell the council that we are not quite In health to bear a trial so severe,

And that if yield we, 'tis to brutal might.

And not to their kind feelings or their right."

XIII

" Much do I grieve," the deacon then replied, " To bear this answer to the governor —

'Twill show that thou hast Church and State defied, And will I ween make not a little stir ;

And should there be, by morrow's light espied, A pinnace coming o'er the waters here.

With musketeers and Underbill their guide.

Be not surprised, but — Williams, quell thy pride !"

XIV

This said, he turned, and hastily withdrew, And all save Williams left behind in tears;

His wife still fair, now lost her blooming hue, And nature yielded to her rising fears ;

A giddy whirling past her senses through-^ She almost heard the blazing musketeers —

And trembling — swooning — to her couch she flew,

And left the good man to his Bible true.

XV. What could his firmness in this trying strait

By Church and State with allied might assailed ?

Should he forego the project of his state.

And leave the fagot to his race entailed?—

CANTO FIRST. His hoped for home in wilderness of late

At once beneath this blighting Siroc failed, And in his prospect, he beholds await The ready ship and ocean desolate.

XVI

"Oh ! for a friend," still as he paced the floor, He often sighed, " now in my utmost need,

Whose counsels might some hidden way explore, And give the glorious purpose to succeed ;

But closed this night is every cottage door — Yet there is one who is a friend indeed,

Forever present to the meek and poor —

I will thy counsels, mighty Lord, implore.

XVII

Here dropt the friend of conscience on his knees. With hands and heart at once to Heaven upreared,

And prayed the God who parted Egypt's seas, Or in the bush to Amram's son appeared,

To aid his project, and the age release.

From mental bonds by Church and State prepared.

And e'en to give, that in this wilderness,

Religious Freedom might his children bless.

XVIII

Our Father ceased — The tempest roared around With double fury at this moment drear,

The cottage trembled, and the very ground Seemed e'en to feel the element's career ;

With ice and snow the window panes were bound, Nor through their dimness could earth's robe appear^

And oft by fits its way the tempest found,

Down the stone chimney, with a roaring sound.

XIX

Like God's own voice it did to Williams seem,

He sate a space within himself retired, Then seemed to rouse as from a transient dream,

Just as the lamp's last flickering ray expired ;

Around the room was shed a quivering beam.

Cast from the brands that on the hearth were fired , The storm seemed lulled — and he began to deem, In neighboring woods he heard the Panther's scream.

XX

"But what is this? a knocking at the door — Some way-lost wanderer seeks a shelter here ;

On this dark night amid the tempest roar.

Ah wretched man thy suiferings are severe !"

He raised the bar that made the pass secure,

And with the snow-gust from the darkness drear,

A stranger entered whose large garments bore

No doubtful tokens of the tempest's power.

XXI

Aged he seemed, and staff of length had he, Which well a holy pilgrim had become,

But yet he sought with solemn dignity.

And easy step the centre of the room ;

Then by the glancing light could Williams see, His beard was long and did his breast o'ercomc —

Age scored his temples — but still glancing free,

As from the ravage of a century,

XXII

His eye beamed youth ; and such a solemn mien, Blent with such majesty and graceful air,

Our founder deemed he ne'er before had seen In mortal form ; and at the offered chair.

The stranger shook his head in mood serene, And by the act revealed his long white hair,

As fell the fleecy covering from it clean,

Where down his shoulders hung its tresses sheen.

XXIII

And when he spake his voice was low and clear, But yet so deeply thrilling was its tone.

The listening soul seemed rapt into a sphere Where angels speak in music of their own,

Canto First. 1]

" Williams," it said, " I come on message here, Of moment great to this blind age unknown, Thou must not dally, or the tempest fear, But fly at morn into the forest drear.

XXIV

" Thou art to* voyage an unexplored flood ;

No chart is there thy lonely bark to steer ; Beneath her rocks, around her tempests rude,

And persecution's billows in her rear, Shall shake thy soul till it is near subdued —

But when the welcome of Whatcheer ! Whatchcer ! ! Shall greet thine ears from Indian multitude, Cast thou thine Anchor there, and trust in God."

XXV. The stranger ceased, and gently past away

Though Williams kindly strove him to detain,

" The night was dark, and wild the tempest's sway And lone the desert," but 'twas all in vain —

He only in soft accents seemed to say,

" Williams perchance I shall behold again

Thee when thou seest a more auspicious day,

Where joys man's faith in Nature's liberty."

XXVI. The stranger past, and Williams by the fire

Long mused on this mysterious event.

Was it some seraph from the Heavenly sphere,

Come down to urge and hallow his intent ? — To counsel — kindle — and his breast inspire

With words fired with prophetic sentiment ?

Or had he dreamed — and had his fancy clear.

Drawn in his mind the vision of this seer ?

XXVII

'Twas strange ! Mysterious ! — Yet if dream it were, 'Twas such as prophets old had often known,

When Jacob saw the Heaven-ascending stair, And Joseph hoarded for the dearth foreshown,

Ah ! did the Omniscient hear his earnest prayer. And did e'en Heaven the glorious project own.

Then would he by the morrow's light repair.

The voice obeying, to the wilds afar.

XXVIII

He sought for rest ; but little did delight.

Of slumber calm our Father then I trow ;

Still mused he on the toils of morrow's flight,

Through unknown wilderness and wastes of snow

How to elude the persecutor's sight.

Or shun the following quest of eager foe,

Taxed his invention with no labor light —

And long, and slow, and lagging past the night.

XXIX. 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 Whilst from the sheltered glen his foes would peep.

With taunts and jeers, and Math revilings foul, Scoff at his efforts, and their clamors deep, Came mingled with that awful tempest's sweep.

XXX

Morn came at last ; and by the dawning gray, Our founder rose his secret flight to take ;

His wife and infant still in slumber lay — Oh ! shall he now that blissful slumber break ?

Yes ! he is one who deems 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.

XXXI

" Mary l" (she woke) " prepare my travelling gear. My pocket compass and my raiment strong,

My flint and steel to yield the needful fire — Food for a week if that be not too long ;.

Canto First. 13

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 foar."

XXXII. " 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 — Oh ! what protecting hand will shield from harm

Thee by dark night, and where the friendly door To give thee shelter from the dire alarm Of hungry wolves, and beasts in human form."

xxxiir.

" Cease, cease, my Mary, thou dost e'en complain

That Heaven does kindly interpose to save — Does wing this tempest's fury to restrain

The quest of foes, and prompts my soul to brave The desert's perils, that I may maintain

The conscience free, 'gainst those who would enslave — Wait till the storm shall cease to sweep the plain, And we are doomed to cross yon heaving main."

XXXIV

No more he said, for she in silence went From place to place until her task was o'er ;

Williams, the whilst, the fleeting moments spent, To scrawl a message to delay the more —

Aye to beguile the beagles on the scent.

Till he had gained the distant wilds secure —

And hope, perchance, still vain illusions lent,

Friendship might plead, and bigotry relent.

XXXV

Then he to Heaven his weeping spouse commends — Implores its blessings on his purpose bold ;

Salem still sleeps, and forth our founder wends To breast the driving storm and chilling cold ;

His wife remains, and from the window sends A glance that all her heaving bosom told — Dimly she marks him as bis course he bends O'er the white fields, and to'ard the woods extends.

XXXVI

To show him parting, to the light she rears His child unconscious yet of human wo,

And oft its guileless silver voice she hears,

" Oh ! Where goes father through the driving snow."

Deeply her bosom at its accents stirs,

" He does my child to the wild red men go.

To seek protection from hard brethren here,

For thee and me and all to him that's dear."

XXXVTI.

So forth he ventured — even like the dove Which earliest left the angel guarded ark ;

On weary pinions hovered she above

The vast of waters, heaving wild and dark,

Over waste realms of death, whilst still she strove Some peak emergent from the flood to mark.

Where she might rest above the billows' sweep,

And build a stormy home 'mid that unquiet deep.

XXXVIII. In boundless forests now our founder trOd

And South-west far his doubtful course he took ; The lofty pines and cedars round him nod —

Loud roars the tempest through the leafless oak ; Deep lies the snow upon the frozen sod.

And still the storms descending torrents choke The Heavens above ; and only fancy could.

So dim the view, conceive the solitude

xxxix.

Of the wide forests that before him lay :

His ever steady onward pace alone Told that from home he lengthened yet his way,

Whilst the like forms — the same drear hollow moan.

Canto First. 15

Seemed lingering around him yet to stay, And every step of progress to disown ; As with all sail the bark the current may Labor against, whilst still its downward sway

XL. Impedes her course, and makes all labor vain

So to our father seemed his journeying now ; Yet still he toiled — and still did he sustain

The same firm spirit. — Think ye he would bow, Or yield to sufferings of corporeal pain,

Whom God had summoned from the bigot's slough To plant Religious Freedom, and maintain Her standard firm on fair Mooshausick's plain !

XLI

Above his head the branches writhe and bend, Or in the mingled wreck their ruin flies —

The storm redoubles, and, the whirlwinds blend The rising snow-drift with descending skies ;

And oft the crags a friendly shelter lend

His breathless bosom, and his sightless eyes ;

But, w^hen the transient gust its fury sj>ends,

He through the storm again upon his journey wends.

XLII

Still truly does his course the magnet keep — No toils fatigue him, and no fears appal ;

Oft turns he at the glimpse of swampy deep, Or thicket dense, or crag abrupt and tall.

Or backward treads to shun the headlong steep, Or pass above the tumbling waterfall ;

Yet still he joys whene'er the torrent's leap,

Or crag abrupt, or thicket dense, or swamp's far sweep

XLIII

Assures him progress, — From gray morn till noon — Hour after hour — from that drear noon until

The evening's gathering darkness had begun To clothe with deeper glooms the vale and hill,

Sire Williams journeyed in the forest lone ;

And then night's thickening shades began to fill His soul with doubt — for shelter had he none — And all the out-stretched waste was clad with one

XLIV

Vast mantle hoar. And he began to hear At times the fox's bark, and the fierce howl

Of wolf, sometimes afar — sometimes so near.

That in the very glen they seemed to prowl

Where now he, wearied, paused — and then his ear Started to note some shaggy monster's growl,

That from his snow-clad rocky den did peer.

Shrunk with gaunt famine in that tempest drear,

XLV

And scenting human blood — yea, and so nigh, Thrice did our northern tiger seem to come,

He thought he heard the fagots crackling by.

And saw, through driven snow and twilight gloom,

Peer from the thickets his fierce burning eye.

Scanning his destined prey, and through the broom,

Thrice stealing on his ears the whining cry

Swelled by degrees above the tempest high.

XLVI

Wayworn he stood — and fast that stormy night Was gathering round him over hill and dale —

He glanced around and by the lingering light Found he had paused within a narrow vale ;

On either hand a snow-clad rocky height Ascended high, a shelter from the gale,

Whilst deep between them, in thick glooms bedight,

A swampy dingle caught the wanderer's sight.

XLVII. Through the white billows thither did he wade

And deep within its silent bosom trod.

There on the snow his oft repeated tread

Hardened a flooring for his night's abode ;

Canto First. 17

All there was calm, for the thick branches made A skreen above, and round him closely stood The trunks of cedars, and of pines arrayed To the rude tempest, a firm barricade.

XLVIII

And now his hatchet, with resounding stroke, Hewed down the boscage that around him rose,

And the dry pine of brittle branches struck, To yield him fuel for the night's repose :

The gathered heap an ample store bespoke — He smites the steel — the tinder brightly glows,

And the fired match the kindled flame awoke,

And light upon night's seated darkness broke.

XLIX. High branched the pines, and far the colonnade

Of tapering trunks stood glimmering through the glen ;

Then joyed our father in this lonely glade, So far from haunts of persecuting men.

That he might break of honesty the bread.

And blessings crave in his own way again — •

Of the piled brush a seat and board he made,

Spread his plain fare and piously he prayed.

L.

" Father of mercies ! thou the wanderer's guide. In this dire storm along the howling waste,

Thanks for the shelter thou dost here provide. Thanks for the mercies of the day that's past ;

Thanks for the frugal fare thou hast supplied ; And Oh ! may still thy tender mercies last ;—

May the delusion of our race subside.

That chains man's conscience to the ruler's pride.

LI.

Grant that thy humble instrument still shun

His persecutors in their eager quest ; — Grant the asylum, yet to be begun.

To persecution's exiles yield a rest ; 3

Let ages after ages take the boon,

And in religious freedom still be blest — Grant that I live until this task be done, And then O Lord ! receive me as thine own."

LII.

Our father ceased, and with keen relish he Refreshed his wearied frame in that lone dell ;

Ah ! little can his far posterity

Sense now the pleasures of that frugal meal ;

For naught he knew of pampered luxury, But toil and fast had done their office well.

And not the dainties brought o'er India's sea,

LIU.

Are now so sweet as was his simple fare.

This banquet past, he would have sought repose ; But at the kindling blaze, heard wide and far

The bowlings drear of forest monsters rose ; And lured around him by the vivid glare.

Came darkling with light foot along the snows Whole packs of wolves, from their far mountam lair. And the fierce cat which scarce the blaze might scare,

LIV.

Growling they come, and in dark groups they stand. Show the white fang, and roll the bright'ning eye ;

Till urged by hunger seemed the shaggy band Even the flame's bright terrors to defy —

Then 'mid the group he hurled the blazing brand ; Swift they disperse and raise the scattered cry ;

But rallying, soon back to the siege they came,

And scarce their rage paused at the mounting flame.

LV.

Yet Williams deemed that persecution took, A form in them less odious than in men ;

He on their dreary solitude had broke —

Aye, and had trespassed on their native glen ;