Oliver Newman :: :: University of Virginia Library

Son of a hapless house!
What were the thoughts which then within thy breast,
At thy true friend's concluding words, arose?
Doth that quick flush disclose
A feeling thou hast labour'd to control,
And hitherto represt
In singleness of heart and strength of soul?
A light, which like a sudden hope might seem,
Kindled his cheek, and brighten'd in his eye:
But it departed like a gleam,
That for a moment in the heavy sky
Is open'd when the storm is hurrying by;
And then his countenance resumed
Its meek serenity.

Nor did that sad composure change,
When of the gentle maiden Leverett spake,
Whom to his charge her mother's dying prayer
In Christian confidence consign'd.
And yet it was a theme which well might wake
Oppugnant feelings in his inmost mind;
For with a hope upon that mother's heart,

Implied, though not express'd, the solemn care
Was given; and therefore in the young man's heart
Uneasily it lay,
As if he were unjust,
And had received a trust
He could not, must not, did not dare—
And yet would fain—repay.

“That trust I could not choose but take,” he said;
“And all that I stand pledged for to the dead
Is soon discharged; it will not from my way
Detain me long, nor lead me far astray.”
“'Tis but the easy distance of a day
From Hadley,” quoth the Governor; and he spread
A map before them, rudely drawn, wherein
Wild forests stretching far and wide were seen,
Rivers whose inland course was unexplored,
And infant settlements, as yet ill-stored,
Few, and with dreary intervals between.
“Here in the vale of the Connecticut,”
Said Leverett, “Willoby's allotment lies:
A part from our immediate enemies
Remote, and, if reliance might be put
On distance, safe. From hence it bears due west
Some five days' travel through the woods; and now
The least frequented path will be the best,
That thou may'st leave behind thee on the left
The troubled country. Here thou see'st it, south,
About these creeks and inlets and the mouth
Of Providence river, and the region wide
Of lakes and swamps in woodland interspersed,

That darkens o'er the land on every side.
This then will be thy course, to render first
The damsel to her father's hands; then seek
Thy fortune with thine Indian company
In the Narhaganset lands. If it fall fair,
Thou wilt among their people leave them there,
And to that painful interview proceed,
Which of thy dearest hope, full well I know,
Must undeceive thee. It shall be my care
To the Connecticut thy way to speed;
From thence, alas! I can but follow thee
With anxious thoughts in spirit and in prayer.
But I will suffer no ill bodings now:
The Lord is merciful, and thy intent
Is righteous, and to Him we leave the event.”

Thus having ended, to the board he led
His guest: too full of care were they
For appetite or easy talk that day.
“This caution let me give thee,” Leverett said,
“That Willoby is a high old Cavalier!”
“Fear not lest I should jar upon his ear
With ill-attuned discourse,” the Youth replied.
“He bore a part, a brave one too, I hear,
In those unhappy times, and may look back
Upon the strife with passion and with pride:
My soul abhors the ill deeds on either side,
Even if it had not cost me all too dear.
Likelier it is that in my Father's sight
I may appear degenerate, and excite
Sorrow or sterner notions in a heart,
The which, albeit with piety imbued,

Is to a Christian temper unsubdued:
But this too I can bear. Oh what a strength
For sufferance to the patient soul is given
When, wholly humbled, it hath placed at length
Its only hope in Heaven.”

“Nay,” answer'd Leverett, “earth, I trust, hath yet
Good hope for thee in store,
One day with fair performance to be crown'd:
For one who doth so well discharge the debt
Of filial duty, will not Heaven fulfil
The eternal promise which it made of yore?
Happy, and long, I trust, thy days shall be,
Here, in the land which the Lord giveth thee.”
And then, as if with such discursive speech
To draw his mind from gloomy thoughts away,
Did Leverett reach
His lifted hand towards the town and bay,
Bright in the morning sunshine as they lay
Before them: “Is it not a goodly land,”
He cried. “where nought is wanting that may bless
The heart of man with wholesome happiness?
Summer subdues not here
To sloth the dissolute mind;
Nor doth the rigorous year
In long inaction bind
His ice-lock'd arm and torpid faculties.
But changeful skies
And varying seasons, in their due career,
Bring forth his powers; and in the vigorous frame
The human spirit thrives and ripens here!
Where might the sober mind,

Which Heaven with temperate desires hath blest,
A land of happier promise find?
Where might a good man fitlier fix his rest?
Where better might he choose a burial-place
For him and for his race?
Where wiselier plant the tree
Of his posterity?”

The smile wherewith the youth received his speech
Was cold and feeble,—one in which the heart
Too plainly had no part;
Constrain'd it came, and slowly past away.
“Truly thou say'st, O friend!”
He said; “and well are they
Who, far from plagues and plots, and from the rage
Of faction, for their children may prepare
A peaceful heritage.
For me, if other end
Await me, fall my fortune as it may,
A comfort and a strength it is to know
That, wheresoe'er I go,
There is the same Heaven over me on high,
Whereon in faith to fix the steady eye;
The same access for prayer;
The same God, always present, every where;
And if no home, yet every where the bed
Which Earth makes ready for the weary head.

“But wherefore should I talk of weariness
Thus early in the day,
And when the morning calls me on my way?
In brightness and in beauty hath it risen,

As if the eternal skies
Approved and smiled upon our enterprise!
Now then farewell! That we shall meet again,
True friend! we know; but whether among men
Or angels who can tell? It is not ours
To choose, or to foresee;
Such choice or foresight would but ill agree
With man's imperfect powers,
Enough for him, that what is best will be.”