V.THE SAILING OF THE MAYFLOWER.

Into the open air John Alden, perplexed and bewildered,Rushed like a man insane, and wandered alone by the seaside;340Paced up and down the sands, and bared his head to the east-wind,Cooling his heated brow, and the fire and fever within him.Slowly, as out of the heavens, with apocalyptical splendors,Sank the City of God, in the vision of John the Apostle;So, with its cloudy walls of chrysolite, jasper, and sapphire,345Sank the broad red sun, and over its turrets upliftedGlimmered the golden reed of the angel who measured the city.“Welcome, O wind of the East!” he exclaimed in his wild exultation,“Welcome, O wind of the East, from the caves of the misty Atlantic!Blowing o’er fields of dulse, and measureless meadows of seagrass,350Blowing o’er rocky wastes, and the grottoes and gardens of ocean!Lay thy cold, moist hand on my burning forehead, and wrap meClose in thy garments of mist, to allay the fever within me!”Like an awakened conscience, the sea was moaning and tossing,Beating remorseful and loud the mutable sands of the seashore.355Fierce in his soul was the struggle and tumult of passions contending;Love triumphant and crowned, and friendship wounded and bleeding,Passionate cries of desire, and importunate pleadings of duty!“Is it my fault,” he said, “that the maiden has chosen between us?Is it my fault that he failed,—my fault that I am the victor?”360Then within him there thundered a voice, like the voice of the Prophet:“It hath displeased the Lord!”—and he thought of David’s transgression,Bathsheba’s beautiful face, and his friend in the front of the battle!Shame and confusion of guilt, and abasement and self-condemnation,Overwhelmed him at once; and he cried in the deepest contrition:365“It hath displeased the Lord! It is the temptation of Satan!”Then, uplifting his head, he looked at the sea, and beheld thereDimly the shadowy form of the Mayflower riding at anchor,Rocked on the rising tide, and ready to sail on the morrow;Heard the voices of men through the mist, the rattle of cordage370Thrown on the deck, the shouts of the mate, and the sailors’ “Aye, aye, sir!”Clear and distinct, but not loud, in the dripping air of the twilight.Still for a moment he stood, and listened, and stared at the vessel,Then went hurriedly on, as one who, seeing a phantom,Stops, then quickens his pace, and follows the beckoning shadow.375“Yes, it is plain to me now,” he murmured, “the hand of the Lord isLeading me out of the land of darkness, the bondage of error,Through the sea, that shall lift the walls of its waters around me,Hiding me, cutting me off, from the cruel thoughts that pursue me.Back will I go o’er the ocean, this dreary land will abandon,380Her whom I may not love, and him whom my heart has offended.Better to be in my grave in the green old churchyard in England,Close by my mother’s side, and among the dust of my kindred;Better be dead and forgotten, than living in shame and dishonor!Sacred and safe and unseen, in the dark of the narrow chamber385With me my secret shall lie, like a buried jewel that glimmersBright on the hand that is dust, in the chambers of silence and darkness,—Yes, as the marriage ring of the great espousal hereafter!”Thus as he spake, he turned, in the strength of his strong resolution,Leaving behind him the shore, and hurried along in the twilight,390Through the congenial gloom of the forest silent and somber,Till he beheld the lights in the seven houses of Plymouth,Shining like seven stars in the dusk and mist of the evening.Soon he entered his door, and found the redoubtable CaptainSitting alone, and absorbed in the martial pages of Cæsar,395Fighting some great campaign in Hainault or Brabant or Flanders.“Long have you been on your errand,” he said with a cheery demeanor,Even as one who is waiting an answer, and fears not the issue.“Not far off is the house, although the woods are between us;But you have lingered so long, that while you were going and coming400I have fought ten battles and sacked and demolished a city.Come, sit down, and in order relate to me all that has happened.”Then John Alden spake, and related the wondrous adventureFrom beginning to end, minutely, just as it happened;How he had seen Priscilla, and how he had sped in his courtship,405Only smoothing a little, and softening down her refusal,But when he came at length to the words Priscilla had spoken,Words so tender and cruel: “Why don’t you speak for yourself, John?”Up leaped the Captain of Plymouth, and stamped on the floor, till his armorClanged on the wall, where it hung, with a sound of sinister omen.410All his pent-up wrath burst forth in a sudden explosion,E’en as a hand-grenade, that scatters destruction around it.Wildly he shouted, and loud: “John Alden! you have betrayed me!Me, Miles Standish, your friend! have supplanted, defrauded, betrayed me!One of my ancestors ran his sword through the heart of Wat Tyler;415Who shall prevent me from running my own through the heart of a traitor?Yours is the greater treason, for yours is a treason to friendship!You, who lived under my roof, whom I cherished and loved as a brother;You, who have fed at my board, and drunk at my cup, to whose keepingI have intrusted my honor, my thoughts the most sacred and secret,—420You too, Brutus! ah, woe to the name of friendship hereafter!Brutus was Cæsar’s friend, and you were mine, but henceforwardLet there be nothing between us save war, and implacable hatred!”So spake the Captain of Plymouth, and strode about in the chamber,Chafing and choking with rage; like cords were the veins on his temples.425But in the midst of his anger a man appeared at the doorway,Bringing in uttermost haste a message of urgent importance,Rumors of danger and war and hostile incursions of Indians!Straightway the Captain paused, and, without further question or parley,Took from the nail on the wall his sword with its scabbard of iron,430Buckled the belt round his waist, and, frowning fiercely, departed.Alden was left alone. He heard the clank of the scabbardGrowing fainter and fainter, and dying away in the distance.Then he arose from his seat, and looked forth into the darkness,Felt the cool air blow on his cheek, that was hot with the insult,435Lifted his eyes to the heavens, and, folding his hands as in childhood,Prayed in the silence of night to the Father who seeth in secret.Meanwhile the choleric Captain strode wrathful away to the council,Found it already assembled, impatiently waiting his coming;Men in the middle of life, austere and grave in deportment,440Only one of them old, the hill that was nearest to heaven,Covered with snow, but erect, the excellent Elder of Plymouth.God had sifted three kingdoms to find the wheat for this planting,Then had sifted the wheat, as the living seed of a nation;So say the chronicles old, and such is the faith of the people!445Near them was standing an Indian, in attitude stern and defiant,Naked down to the waist, and grim and ferocious in aspect;While on the table before them was lying unopened a Bible,Ponderous, bound in leather, brass-studded, printed in Holland,And beside it outstretched the skin of a rattlesnake glittered,450Filled, like a quiver, with arrows: a signal and challenge of warfare,Brought by the Indian, and speaking with arrowy tongues of defiance.This Miles Standish beheld, as he entered, and heard them debatingWhat were an answer befitting the hostile message and menace,Talking of this and of that, contriving, suggesting, objecting;455One voice only for peace, and that the voice of the Elder,Judging it wise and well that some at least were converted,Rather than any were slain, for this was but Christian behavior!Then out spake Miles Standish, the stalwart Captain of Plymouth,Muttering deep in his throat, for his voice was husky with anger,460“What! do you mean to make war with milk and the water of roses?Is it to shoot red squirrels you have your howitzer plantedThere on the roof of the church, or is it to shoot red devils?Truly the only tongue that is understood by a savageMust be the tongue of fire that speaks from the mouth of the cannon!”465Thereupon answered and said the excellent Elder of Plymouth,Somewhat amazed and alarmed at this irreverent language:“Not so thought St. Paul, nor yet the other Apostles;Not from the cannon’s mouth were the tongues of fire they spake with!”But unheeded fell this mild rebuke on the Captain,470Who had advanced to the table, and thus continued discoursing:“Leave this matter to me, for to me by right it pertaineth.War is a terrible trade; but in the cause that is righteous,Sweet is the smell of powder; and thus I answer the challenge!”Then from the rattlesnake’s skin, with a sudden, contemptuous gesture,475Jerking the Indian arrows, he filled it with powder and bulletsFull to the very jaws, and handed it back to the savage,Saying, in thundering tones: “Here, take it! this is your answer!”Silently out of the room then glided the glistening savage,Bearing the serpent’s skin, and seeming himself like a serpent,480Winding his sinuous way in the dark to the depths of the forest.

Into the open air John Alden, perplexed and bewildered,

Rushed like a man insane, and wandered alone by the seaside;340

Paced up and down the sands, and bared his head to the east-wind,

Cooling his heated brow, and the fire and fever within him.

Slowly, as out of the heavens, with apocalyptical splendors,

Sank the City of God, in the vision of John the Apostle;

So, with its cloudy walls of chrysolite, jasper, and sapphire,345

Sank the broad red sun, and over its turrets uplifted

Glimmered the golden reed of the angel who measured the city.

“Welcome, O wind of the East!” he exclaimed in his wild exultation,“Welcome, O wind of the East, from the caves of the misty Atlantic!Blowing o’er fields of dulse, and measureless meadows of seagrass,350Blowing o’er rocky wastes, and the grottoes and gardens of ocean!Lay thy cold, moist hand on my burning forehead, and wrap meClose in thy garments of mist, to allay the fever within me!”Like an awakened conscience, the sea was moaning and tossing,Beating remorseful and loud the mutable sands of the seashore.355Fierce in his soul was the struggle and tumult of passions contending;Love triumphant and crowned, and friendship wounded and bleeding,Passionate cries of desire, and importunate pleadings of duty!“Is it my fault,” he said, “that the maiden has chosen between us?Is it my fault that he failed,—my fault that I am the victor?”360Then within him there thundered a voice, like the voice of the Prophet:“It hath displeased the Lord!”—and he thought of David’s transgression,Bathsheba’s beautiful face, and his friend in the front of the battle!Shame and confusion of guilt, and abasement and self-condemnation,Overwhelmed him at once; and he cried in the deepest contrition:365“It hath displeased the Lord! It is the temptation of Satan!”

“Welcome, O wind of the East!” he exclaimed in his wild exultation,

“Welcome, O wind of the East, from the caves of the misty Atlantic!

Blowing o’er fields of dulse, and measureless meadows of seagrass,350

Blowing o’er rocky wastes, and the grottoes and gardens of ocean!

Lay thy cold, moist hand on my burning forehead, and wrap me

Close in thy garments of mist, to allay the fever within me!”

Like an awakened conscience, the sea was moaning and tossing,

Beating remorseful and loud the mutable sands of the seashore.355

Fierce in his soul was the struggle and tumult of passions contending;

Love triumphant and crowned, and friendship wounded and bleeding,

Passionate cries of desire, and importunate pleadings of duty!

“Is it my fault,” he said, “that the maiden has chosen between us?

Is it my fault that he failed,—my fault that I am the victor?”360

Then within him there thundered a voice, like the voice of the Prophet:

“It hath displeased the Lord!”—and he thought of David’s transgression,

Bathsheba’s beautiful face, and his friend in the front of the battle!

Shame and confusion of guilt, and abasement and self-condemnation,

Overwhelmed him at once; and he cried in the deepest contrition:365

“It hath displeased the Lord! It is the temptation of Satan!”

Then, uplifting his head, he looked at the sea, and beheld thereDimly the shadowy form of the Mayflower riding at anchor,Rocked on the rising tide, and ready to sail on the morrow;Heard the voices of men through the mist, the rattle of cordage370Thrown on the deck, the shouts of the mate, and the sailors’ “Aye, aye, sir!”Clear and distinct, but not loud, in the dripping air of the twilight.Still for a moment he stood, and listened, and stared at the vessel,Then went hurriedly on, as one who, seeing a phantom,Stops, then quickens his pace, and follows the beckoning shadow.375“Yes, it is plain to me now,” he murmured, “the hand of the Lord isLeading me out of the land of darkness, the bondage of error,Through the sea, that shall lift the walls of its waters around me,Hiding me, cutting me off, from the cruel thoughts that pursue me.Back will I go o’er the ocean, this dreary land will abandon,380Her whom I may not love, and him whom my heart has offended.Better to be in my grave in the green old churchyard in England,Close by my mother’s side, and among the dust of my kindred;Better be dead and forgotten, than living in shame and dishonor!Sacred and safe and unseen, in the dark of the narrow chamber385With me my secret shall lie, like a buried jewel that glimmersBright on the hand that is dust, in the chambers of silence and darkness,—Yes, as the marriage ring of the great espousal hereafter!”

Then, uplifting his head, he looked at the sea, and beheld there

Dimly the shadowy form of the Mayflower riding at anchor,

Rocked on the rising tide, and ready to sail on the morrow;

Heard the voices of men through the mist, the rattle of cordage370

Thrown on the deck, the shouts of the mate, and the sailors’ “Aye, aye, sir!”

Clear and distinct, but not loud, in the dripping air of the twilight.

Still for a moment he stood, and listened, and stared at the vessel,

Then went hurriedly on, as one who, seeing a phantom,

Stops, then quickens his pace, and follows the beckoning shadow.375

“Yes, it is plain to me now,” he murmured, “the hand of the Lord is

Leading me out of the land of darkness, the bondage of error,

Through the sea, that shall lift the walls of its waters around me,

Hiding me, cutting me off, from the cruel thoughts that pursue me.

Back will I go o’er the ocean, this dreary land will abandon,380

Her whom I may not love, and him whom my heart has offended.

Better to be in my grave in the green old churchyard in England,

Close by my mother’s side, and among the dust of my kindred;

Better be dead and forgotten, than living in shame and dishonor!

Sacred and safe and unseen, in the dark of the narrow chamber385

With me my secret shall lie, like a buried jewel that glimmers

Bright on the hand that is dust, in the chambers of silence and darkness,—

Yes, as the marriage ring of the great espousal hereafter!”

Thus as he spake, he turned, in the strength of his strong resolution,Leaving behind him the shore, and hurried along in the twilight,390Through the congenial gloom of the forest silent and somber,Till he beheld the lights in the seven houses of Plymouth,Shining like seven stars in the dusk and mist of the evening.Soon he entered his door, and found the redoubtable CaptainSitting alone, and absorbed in the martial pages of Cæsar,395Fighting some great campaign in Hainault or Brabant or Flanders.“Long have you been on your errand,” he said with a cheery demeanor,Even as one who is waiting an answer, and fears not the issue.“Not far off is the house, although the woods are between us;But you have lingered so long, that while you were going and coming400I have fought ten battles and sacked and demolished a city.Come, sit down, and in order relate to me all that has happened.”

Thus as he spake, he turned, in the strength of his strong resolution,

Leaving behind him the shore, and hurried along in the twilight,390

Through the congenial gloom of the forest silent and somber,

Till he beheld the lights in the seven houses of Plymouth,

Shining like seven stars in the dusk and mist of the evening.

Soon he entered his door, and found the redoubtable Captain

Sitting alone, and absorbed in the martial pages of Cæsar,395

Fighting some great campaign in Hainault or Brabant or Flanders.

“Long have you been on your errand,” he said with a cheery demeanor,

Even as one who is waiting an answer, and fears not the issue.

“Not far off is the house, although the woods are between us;

But you have lingered so long, that while you were going and coming400

I have fought ten battles and sacked and demolished a city.

Come, sit down, and in order relate to me all that has happened.”

Then John Alden spake, and related the wondrous adventureFrom beginning to end, minutely, just as it happened;How he had seen Priscilla, and how he had sped in his courtship,405Only smoothing a little, and softening down her refusal,But when he came at length to the words Priscilla had spoken,Words so tender and cruel: “Why don’t you speak for yourself, John?”Up leaped the Captain of Plymouth, and stamped on the floor, till his armorClanged on the wall, where it hung, with a sound of sinister omen.410All his pent-up wrath burst forth in a sudden explosion,E’en as a hand-grenade, that scatters destruction around it.Wildly he shouted, and loud: “John Alden! you have betrayed me!Me, Miles Standish, your friend! have supplanted, defrauded, betrayed me!One of my ancestors ran his sword through the heart of Wat Tyler;415Who shall prevent me from running my own through the heart of a traitor?Yours is the greater treason, for yours is a treason to friendship!You, who lived under my roof, whom I cherished and loved as a brother;You, who have fed at my board, and drunk at my cup, to whose keepingI have intrusted my honor, my thoughts the most sacred and secret,—420You too, Brutus! ah, woe to the name of friendship hereafter!Brutus was Cæsar’s friend, and you were mine, but henceforwardLet there be nothing between us save war, and implacable hatred!”

Then John Alden spake, and related the wondrous adventure

From beginning to end, minutely, just as it happened;

How he had seen Priscilla, and how he had sped in his courtship,405

Only smoothing a little, and softening down her refusal,

But when he came at length to the words Priscilla had spoken,

Words so tender and cruel: “Why don’t you speak for yourself, John?”

Up leaped the Captain of Plymouth, and stamped on the floor, till his armor

Clanged on the wall, where it hung, with a sound of sinister omen.410

All his pent-up wrath burst forth in a sudden explosion,

E’en as a hand-grenade, that scatters destruction around it.

Wildly he shouted, and loud: “John Alden! you have betrayed me!

Me, Miles Standish, your friend! have supplanted, defrauded, betrayed me!

One of my ancestors ran his sword through the heart of Wat Tyler;415

Who shall prevent me from running my own through the heart of a traitor?

Yours is the greater treason, for yours is a treason to friendship!

You, who lived under my roof, whom I cherished and loved as a brother;

You, who have fed at my board, and drunk at my cup, to whose keeping

I have intrusted my honor, my thoughts the most sacred and secret,—420

You too, Brutus! ah, woe to the name of friendship hereafter!

Brutus was Cæsar’s friend, and you were mine, but henceforward

Let there be nothing between us save war, and implacable hatred!”

So spake the Captain of Plymouth, and strode about in the chamber,Chafing and choking with rage; like cords were the veins on his temples.425But in the midst of his anger a man appeared at the doorway,Bringing in uttermost haste a message of urgent importance,Rumors of danger and war and hostile incursions of Indians!Straightway the Captain paused, and, without further question or parley,Took from the nail on the wall his sword with its scabbard of iron,430Buckled the belt round his waist, and, frowning fiercely, departed.Alden was left alone. He heard the clank of the scabbardGrowing fainter and fainter, and dying away in the distance.Then he arose from his seat, and looked forth into the darkness,Felt the cool air blow on his cheek, that was hot with the insult,435Lifted his eyes to the heavens, and, folding his hands as in childhood,Prayed in the silence of night to the Father who seeth in secret.

So spake the Captain of Plymouth, and strode about in the chamber,

Chafing and choking with rage; like cords were the veins on his temples.425

But in the midst of his anger a man appeared at the doorway,

Bringing in uttermost haste a message of urgent importance,

Rumors of danger and war and hostile incursions of Indians!

Straightway the Captain paused, and, without further question or parley,

Took from the nail on the wall his sword with its scabbard of iron,430

Buckled the belt round his waist, and, frowning fiercely, departed.

Alden was left alone. He heard the clank of the scabbard

Growing fainter and fainter, and dying away in the distance.

Then he arose from his seat, and looked forth into the darkness,

Felt the cool air blow on his cheek, that was hot with the insult,435

Lifted his eyes to the heavens, and, folding his hands as in childhood,

Prayed in the silence of night to the Father who seeth in secret.

Meanwhile the choleric Captain strode wrathful away to the council,Found it already assembled, impatiently waiting his coming;Men in the middle of life, austere and grave in deportment,440Only one of them old, the hill that was nearest to heaven,Covered with snow, but erect, the excellent Elder of Plymouth.God had sifted three kingdoms to find the wheat for this planting,Then had sifted the wheat, as the living seed of a nation;So say the chronicles old, and such is the faith of the people!445Near them was standing an Indian, in attitude stern and defiant,Naked down to the waist, and grim and ferocious in aspect;While on the table before them was lying unopened a Bible,Ponderous, bound in leather, brass-studded, printed in Holland,And beside it outstretched the skin of a rattlesnake glittered,450Filled, like a quiver, with arrows: a signal and challenge of warfare,Brought by the Indian, and speaking with arrowy tongues of defiance.This Miles Standish beheld, as he entered, and heard them debatingWhat were an answer befitting the hostile message and menace,Talking of this and of that, contriving, suggesting, objecting;455One voice only for peace, and that the voice of the Elder,Judging it wise and well that some at least were converted,Rather than any were slain, for this was but Christian behavior!Then out spake Miles Standish, the stalwart Captain of Plymouth,Muttering deep in his throat, for his voice was husky with anger,460“What! do you mean to make war with milk and the water of roses?Is it to shoot red squirrels you have your howitzer plantedThere on the roof of the church, or is it to shoot red devils?Truly the only tongue that is understood by a savageMust be the tongue of fire that speaks from the mouth of the cannon!”465Thereupon answered and said the excellent Elder of Plymouth,Somewhat amazed and alarmed at this irreverent language:“Not so thought St. Paul, nor yet the other Apostles;Not from the cannon’s mouth were the tongues of fire they spake with!”But unheeded fell this mild rebuke on the Captain,470Who had advanced to the table, and thus continued discoursing:“Leave this matter to me, for to me by right it pertaineth.War is a terrible trade; but in the cause that is righteous,Sweet is the smell of powder; and thus I answer the challenge!”

Meanwhile the choleric Captain strode wrathful away to the council,

Found it already assembled, impatiently waiting his coming;

Men in the middle of life, austere and grave in deportment,440

Only one of them old, the hill that was nearest to heaven,

Covered with snow, but erect, the excellent Elder of Plymouth.

God had sifted three kingdoms to find the wheat for this planting,

Then had sifted the wheat, as the living seed of a nation;

So say the chronicles old, and such is the faith of the people!445

Near them was standing an Indian, in attitude stern and defiant,

Naked down to the waist, and grim and ferocious in aspect;

While on the table before them was lying unopened a Bible,

Ponderous, bound in leather, brass-studded, printed in Holland,

And beside it outstretched the skin of a rattlesnake glittered,450

Filled, like a quiver, with arrows: a signal and challenge of warfare,

Brought by the Indian, and speaking with arrowy tongues of defiance.

This Miles Standish beheld, as he entered, and heard them debating

What were an answer befitting the hostile message and menace,

Talking of this and of that, contriving, suggesting, objecting;455

One voice only for peace, and that the voice of the Elder,

Judging it wise and well that some at least were converted,

Rather than any were slain, for this was but Christian behavior!

Then out spake Miles Standish, the stalwart Captain of Plymouth,

Muttering deep in his throat, for his voice was husky with anger,460

“What! do you mean to make war with milk and the water of roses?

Is it to shoot red squirrels you have your howitzer planted

There on the roof of the church, or is it to shoot red devils?

Truly the only tongue that is understood by a savage

Must be the tongue of fire that speaks from the mouth of the cannon!”465

Thereupon answered and said the excellent Elder of Plymouth,

Somewhat amazed and alarmed at this irreverent language:

“Not so thought St. Paul, nor yet the other Apostles;

Not from the cannon’s mouth were the tongues of fire they spake with!”

But unheeded fell this mild rebuke on the Captain,470

Who had advanced to the table, and thus continued discoursing:

“Leave this matter to me, for to me by right it pertaineth.

War is a terrible trade; but in the cause that is righteous,

Sweet is the smell of powder; and thus I answer the challenge!”

Then from the rattlesnake’s skin, with a sudden, contemptuous gesture,475Jerking the Indian arrows, he filled it with powder and bulletsFull to the very jaws, and handed it back to the savage,Saying, in thundering tones: “Here, take it! this is your answer!”Silently out of the room then glided the glistening savage,Bearing the serpent’s skin, and seeming himself like a serpent,480Winding his sinuous way in the dark to the depths of the forest.

Then from the rattlesnake’s skin, with a sudden, contemptuous gesture,475

Jerking the Indian arrows, he filled it with powder and bullets

Full to the very jaws, and handed it back to the savage,

Saying, in thundering tones: “Here, take it! this is your answer!”

Silently out of the room then glided the glistening savage,

Bearing the serpent’s skin, and seeming himself like a serpent,480

Winding his sinuous way in the dark to the depths of the forest.

Just in the gray of the dawn, as the mists uprose from the meadows,There was a stir and a sound in the slumbering village of Plymouth;Clanging and clicking of arms, and the order imperative, “Forward!”Given in tone suppressed, a tramp of feet, and then silence.485Figures ten, in the mist, marched slowly out of the village.Standish the stalwart it was, with eight of his valorous army,Led by their Indian guide, by Hobomok, friend of the white men,Northward marching to quell the sudden revolt of the savage.Giants they seemed in the mist, or the mighty men of King David;490Giants in heart they were, who believed in God and the Bible,—Aye, who believed in the smiting of Midianites and Philistines.Over them gleamed far off the crimson banners of morning;Under them loud on the sands, the serried billows, advancing,Fired along the line, and in regular order retreated.495Many a mile had they marched, when at length the village of PlymouthWoke from its sleep, and arose, intent on its manifold labors.Sweet was the air and soft; and slowly the smoke from the chimneysRose over roofs of thatch, and pointed steadily eastward;Men came forth from the doors, and paused and talked of the weather,500Said that the wind had changed, and was blowing fair for the Mayflower;Talked of their Captain’s departure, and all the dangers that menaced,He being gone, the town, and what should be done in his absence.Merrily sang the birds, and the tender voices of womenConsecrated with hymns the common cares of the household.505Out of the sea rose the sun, and the billows rejoiced at his coming:Beautiful were his feet on the purple tops of the mountains;Beautiful on the sails of the Mayflower riding at anchor,Battered and blackened and worn by all the storms of the winter.Loosely against her masts was hanging and flapping her canvas,510Rent by so many gales, and patched by the hands of the sailors.Suddenly from her side, as the sun rose over the ocean,Darted a puff of smoke, and floated seaward; anon rangLoud over field and forest the cannon’s roar, and the echoesHeard and repeated the sound, the signal-gun of departure!515Ah! but with louder echoes replied the hearts of the people!Meekly, in voices subdued, the chapter was read from the Bible,Meekly the prayer was begun, but ended in fervent entreaty!Then from their houses in haste came forth the Pilgrims of Plymouth,Men and women and children, all hurrying down to the seashore,520Eager, with tearful eyes, to say farewell to the Mayflower,Homeward bound o’er the sea, and leaving them here in the desert.Foremost among them was Alden. All night he had lain without slumber,Turning and tossing about in the heat and unrest of his fever.He had beheld Miles Standish, who came back late from the council,525Stalking into the room, and heard him mutter and murmur,Sometimes it seemed a prayer, and sometimes it sounded like swearing.Once he had come to the bed, and stood there a moment in silence;Then he had turned away, and said: “I will not awake him;Let him sleep on, it is best; for what is the use of more talking!”530Then he extinguished the light, and threw himself down on his pallet,Dressed as he was, and ready to start at the break of the morning,—Covered himself with the cloak he had worn in his campaigns in Flanders,—Slept as a soldier sleeps in his bivouac, ready for action.But with the dawn he arose; in the twilight Alden beheld him535Put on his corselet of steel, and all the rest of his armor,Buckle about his waist his trusty blade of Damascus,Take from the corner his musket, and so stride out of the chamber.Often the heart of the youth had burned and yearned to embrace him,Often his lips had essayed to speak, imploring for pardon;540All the old friendship came back with its tender and grateful emotions;But his pride overmastered the nobler nature within him,—Pride, and the sense of his wrong, and the burning fire of the insult.So he beheld his friend departing in anger, but spake not,Saw him go forth to danger, perhaps to death, and he spake not!545Then he arose from his bed, and heard what the people were saying,Joined in the talk at the door, with Stephen and Richard and Gilbert,Joined in the morning prayer, and in the reading of Scripture,And, with the others, in haste went hurrying down to the seashore,Down to the Plymouth Rock, that had been to their feet as a doorstep550Into a world unknown,—the corner-stone of a nation!There with his boat was the Master, already a little impatientLest he should lose the tide, or the wind might shift to the eastward,Square-built, hearty, and strong, with an odor of ocean about him,Speaking with this one and that, and cramming letters and parcels555Into his pockets capacious, and messages mingled togetherInto his narrow brain, till at last he was wholly bewildered.Nearer the boat stood Alden, with one foot placed on the gunwale,One still firm on the rock, and talking at times with the sailors,Seated erect on the thwarts, all ready and eager for starting.560He too was eager to go, and thus put an end to his anguish,Thinking to fly from despair, that swifter than keel is or canvas,Thinking to drown in the sea the ghost that would rise and pursue him.But as he gazed on the crowd, he beheld the form of PriscillaStanding dejected, among them, unconscious of all that was passing.565Fixed were her eyes upon his, as if she divined his intention,Fixed with a look so sad, so reproachful, imploring, and patient,That with a sudden revulsion his heart recoiled from its purpose,As from the verge of a crag, where one step more is destruction.Strange is the heart of man, with its quick, mysterious instincts!570Strange is the life of man, and fatal or fated are moments,Whereupon turn, as on hinges, the gates of the wall adamantine!“Here I remain!” he exclaimed, as he looked at the heavens above him,Thanking the Lord whose breath had scattered the mist and the madness,Wherein, blind and lost, to death he was staggering headlong.575“Yonder snow-white cloud, that floats in the ether above me,Seems like a hand that is pointing and beckoning over the ocean.There is another hand, that is not so spectral and ghostlike,Holding me, drawing me back, and clasping mine for protection.Float, O hand of cloud, and vanish away in the ether!580Roll thyself up like a fist, to threaten and daunt me; I heed notEither your warning or menace, or any omen of evil!There is no land so sacred, no air so pure and so wholesome,As is the air she breathes, and the soil that is pressed by her footsteps.Here for her sake will I stay, and like an invisible presence.585Hover around her forever, protecting, supporting her weakness;Yes! as my foot was the first that stepped on this rock at the landing,So, with the blessing of God, shall it be the last at the leaving!”Meanwhile the Master alert, but with dignified air and important,Scanning with watchful eye the tide and the wind and the weather,590Walked about on the sands, and the people crowded around himSaying a few last words, and enforcing his careful remembrance.Then, taking each by the hand, as if he were grasping a tiller,Into the boat he sprang, and in haste shoved off to his vessel.Glad in his heart to get rid of all this worry and flurry,595Glad to be gone from a land of sand and sickness and sorrow,Short allowance of victual, and plenty of nothing but Gospel!Lost in the sound of oars was the last farewell of the Pilgrims.O strong hearts and true! not one went back in the Mayflower!No, not one looked back, who had set his hand to this plowing!600Soon were heard on board the shouts and songs of the sailorsHeaving the windlass round, and hoisting the ponderous anchor.Then the yards were braced, and all sails set to the west-wind,Blowing steady and strong; and the Mayflower sailed from the harbor,Rounded the point of the Gurnet, and leaving far to the southward605Island and cape of sand, and the Field of the First Encounter,Took the wind on her quarter, and stood for the open Atlantic,Borne on the send of the sea, and the swelling hearts of the Pilgrims.Long in silence they watched the receding sail of the vessel,Much endeared to them all, as something living and human;610Then, as if tilled with the spirit, and wrapt in a vision prophetic,Baring his hoary head, the excellent Elder of PlymouthSaid, “Let us pray!” and they prayed, and thanked the Lord and took courage.Mournfully sobbed the waves at the base of the rock, and above themBowed and whispered the wheat on the hill of death, and their kindred615Seemed to awake in their graves, and to join in the prayer that they uttered.Sun-illumined and white, on the eastern verge of the oceanGleamed the departing sail, like a marble slab in a graveyard;Buried beneath it lay forever all hope of escaping.Lo! as they turned to depart, they saw the form of an Indian,620Watching them from the hill; but while they spake with each other,Pointing with outstretched hands, and saying, “Look!” he had vanished.So they returned to their homes; but Alden lingered a little,Musing alone on the shore, and watching the wash of the billowsRound the base of the rock, and the sparkle and flash of the sunshine,625Like the spirit of God, moving visibly over the waters.

Just in the gray of the dawn, as the mists uprose from the meadows,

There was a stir and a sound in the slumbering village of Plymouth;

Clanging and clicking of arms, and the order imperative, “Forward!”

Given in tone suppressed, a tramp of feet, and then silence.485

Figures ten, in the mist, marched slowly out of the village.

Standish the stalwart it was, with eight of his valorous army,

Led by their Indian guide, by Hobomok, friend of the white men,

Northward marching to quell the sudden revolt of the savage.

Giants they seemed in the mist, or the mighty men of King David;490

Giants in heart they were, who believed in God and the Bible,—

Aye, who believed in the smiting of Midianites and Philistines.

Over them gleamed far off the crimson banners of morning;

Under them loud on the sands, the serried billows, advancing,

Fired along the line, and in regular order retreated.495

Many a mile had they marched, when at length the village of PlymouthWoke from its sleep, and arose, intent on its manifold labors.Sweet was the air and soft; and slowly the smoke from the chimneysRose over roofs of thatch, and pointed steadily eastward;Men came forth from the doors, and paused and talked of the weather,500Said that the wind had changed, and was blowing fair for the Mayflower;Talked of their Captain’s departure, and all the dangers that menaced,He being gone, the town, and what should be done in his absence.Merrily sang the birds, and the tender voices of womenConsecrated with hymns the common cares of the household.505Out of the sea rose the sun, and the billows rejoiced at his coming:Beautiful were his feet on the purple tops of the mountains;Beautiful on the sails of the Mayflower riding at anchor,Battered and blackened and worn by all the storms of the winter.Loosely against her masts was hanging and flapping her canvas,510Rent by so many gales, and patched by the hands of the sailors.Suddenly from her side, as the sun rose over the ocean,Darted a puff of smoke, and floated seaward; anon rangLoud over field and forest the cannon’s roar, and the echoesHeard and repeated the sound, the signal-gun of departure!515Ah! but with louder echoes replied the hearts of the people!Meekly, in voices subdued, the chapter was read from the Bible,Meekly the prayer was begun, but ended in fervent entreaty!Then from their houses in haste came forth the Pilgrims of Plymouth,Men and women and children, all hurrying down to the seashore,520Eager, with tearful eyes, to say farewell to the Mayflower,Homeward bound o’er the sea, and leaving them here in the desert.

Many a mile had they marched, when at length the village of Plymouth

Woke from its sleep, and arose, intent on its manifold labors.

Sweet was the air and soft; and slowly the smoke from the chimneys

Rose over roofs of thatch, and pointed steadily eastward;

Men came forth from the doors, and paused and talked of the weather,500

Said that the wind had changed, and was blowing fair for the Mayflower;

Talked of their Captain’s departure, and all the dangers that menaced,

He being gone, the town, and what should be done in his absence.

Merrily sang the birds, and the tender voices of women

Consecrated with hymns the common cares of the household.505

Out of the sea rose the sun, and the billows rejoiced at his coming:

Beautiful were his feet on the purple tops of the mountains;

Beautiful on the sails of the Mayflower riding at anchor,

Battered and blackened and worn by all the storms of the winter.

Loosely against her masts was hanging and flapping her canvas,510

Rent by so many gales, and patched by the hands of the sailors.

Suddenly from her side, as the sun rose over the ocean,

Darted a puff of smoke, and floated seaward; anon rang

Loud over field and forest the cannon’s roar, and the echoes

Heard and repeated the sound, the signal-gun of departure!515

Ah! but with louder echoes replied the hearts of the people!

Meekly, in voices subdued, the chapter was read from the Bible,

Meekly the prayer was begun, but ended in fervent entreaty!

Then from their houses in haste came forth the Pilgrims of Plymouth,

Men and women and children, all hurrying down to the seashore,520

Eager, with tearful eyes, to say farewell to the Mayflower,

Homeward bound o’er the sea, and leaving them here in the desert.

Foremost among them was Alden. All night he had lain without slumber,Turning and tossing about in the heat and unrest of his fever.He had beheld Miles Standish, who came back late from the council,525Stalking into the room, and heard him mutter and murmur,Sometimes it seemed a prayer, and sometimes it sounded like swearing.Once he had come to the bed, and stood there a moment in silence;Then he had turned away, and said: “I will not awake him;Let him sleep on, it is best; for what is the use of more talking!”530Then he extinguished the light, and threw himself down on his pallet,Dressed as he was, and ready to start at the break of the morning,—Covered himself with the cloak he had worn in his campaigns in Flanders,—Slept as a soldier sleeps in his bivouac, ready for action.But with the dawn he arose; in the twilight Alden beheld him535Put on his corselet of steel, and all the rest of his armor,Buckle about his waist his trusty blade of Damascus,Take from the corner his musket, and so stride out of the chamber.Often the heart of the youth had burned and yearned to embrace him,Often his lips had essayed to speak, imploring for pardon;540All the old friendship came back with its tender and grateful emotions;But his pride overmastered the nobler nature within him,—Pride, and the sense of his wrong, and the burning fire of the insult.So he beheld his friend departing in anger, but spake not,Saw him go forth to danger, perhaps to death, and he spake not!545Then he arose from his bed, and heard what the people were saying,Joined in the talk at the door, with Stephen and Richard and Gilbert,Joined in the morning prayer, and in the reading of Scripture,And, with the others, in haste went hurrying down to the seashore,Down to the Plymouth Rock, that had been to their feet as a doorstep550Into a world unknown,—the corner-stone of a nation!

Foremost among them was Alden. All night he had lain without slumber,

Turning and tossing about in the heat and unrest of his fever.

He had beheld Miles Standish, who came back late from the council,525

Stalking into the room, and heard him mutter and murmur,

Sometimes it seemed a prayer, and sometimes it sounded like swearing.

Once he had come to the bed, and stood there a moment in silence;

Then he had turned away, and said: “I will not awake him;

Let him sleep on, it is best; for what is the use of more talking!”530

Then he extinguished the light, and threw himself down on his pallet,

Dressed as he was, and ready to start at the break of the morning,—

Covered himself with the cloak he had worn in his campaigns in Flanders,—

Slept as a soldier sleeps in his bivouac, ready for action.

But with the dawn he arose; in the twilight Alden beheld him535

Put on his corselet of steel, and all the rest of his armor,

Buckle about his waist his trusty blade of Damascus,

Take from the corner his musket, and so stride out of the chamber.

Often the heart of the youth had burned and yearned to embrace him,

Often his lips had essayed to speak, imploring for pardon;540

All the old friendship came back with its tender and grateful emotions;

But his pride overmastered the nobler nature within him,—

Pride, and the sense of his wrong, and the burning fire of the insult.

So he beheld his friend departing in anger, but spake not,

Saw him go forth to danger, perhaps to death, and he spake not!545

Then he arose from his bed, and heard what the people were saying,

Joined in the talk at the door, with Stephen and Richard and Gilbert,

Joined in the morning prayer, and in the reading of Scripture,

And, with the others, in haste went hurrying down to the seashore,

Down to the Plymouth Rock, that had been to their feet as a doorstep550

Into a world unknown,—the corner-stone of a nation!

There with his boat was the Master, already a little impatientLest he should lose the tide, or the wind might shift to the eastward,Square-built, hearty, and strong, with an odor of ocean about him,Speaking with this one and that, and cramming letters and parcels555Into his pockets capacious, and messages mingled togetherInto his narrow brain, till at last he was wholly bewildered.Nearer the boat stood Alden, with one foot placed on the gunwale,One still firm on the rock, and talking at times with the sailors,Seated erect on the thwarts, all ready and eager for starting.560He too was eager to go, and thus put an end to his anguish,Thinking to fly from despair, that swifter than keel is or canvas,Thinking to drown in the sea the ghost that would rise and pursue him.But as he gazed on the crowd, he beheld the form of PriscillaStanding dejected, among them, unconscious of all that was passing.565Fixed were her eyes upon his, as if she divined his intention,Fixed with a look so sad, so reproachful, imploring, and patient,That with a sudden revulsion his heart recoiled from its purpose,As from the verge of a crag, where one step more is destruction.Strange is the heart of man, with its quick, mysterious instincts!570Strange is the life of man, and fatal or fated are moments,Whereupon turn, as on hinges, the gates of the wall adamantine!“Here I remain!” he exclaimed, as he looked at the heavens above him,Thanking the Lord whose breath had scattered the mist and the madness,Wherein, blind and lost, to death he was staggering headlong.575“Yonder snow-white cloud, that floats in the ether above me,Seems like a hand that is pointing and beckoning over the ocean.There is another hand, that is not so spectral and ghostlike,Holding me, drawing me back, and clasping mine for protection.Float, O hand of cloud, and vanish away in the ether!580Roll thyself up like a fist, to threaten and daunt me; I heed notEither your warning or menace, or any omen of evil!There is no land so sacred, no air so pure and so wholesome,As is the air she breathes, and the soil that is pressed by her footsteps.Here for her sake will I stay, and like an invisible presence.585Hover around her forever, protecting, supporting her weakness;Yes! as my foot was the first that stepped on this rock at the landing,So, with the blessing of God, shall it be the last at the leaving!”

There with his boat was the Master, already a little impatient

Lest he should lose the tide, or the wind might shift to the eastward,

Square-built, hearty, and strong, with an odor of ocean about him,

Speaking with this one and that, and cramming letters and parcels555

Into his pockets capacious, and messages mingled together

Into his narrow brain, till at last he was wholly bewildered.

Nearer the boat stood Alden, with one foot placed on the gunwale,

One still firm on the rock, and talking at times with the sailors,

Seated erect on the thwarts, all ready and eager for starting.560

He too was eager to go, and thus put an end to his anguish,

Thinking to fly from despair, that swifter than keel is or canvas,

Thinking to drown in the sea the ghost that would rise and pursue him.

But as he gazed on the crowd, he beheld the form of Priscilla

Standing dejected, among them, unconscious of all that was passing.565

Fixed were her eyes upon his, as if she divined his intention,

Fixed with a look so sad, so reproachful, imploring, and patient,

That with a sudden revulsion his heart recoiled from its purpose,

As from the verge of a crag, where one step more is destruction.

Strange is the heart of man, with its quick, mysterious instincts!570

Strange is the life of man, and fatal or fated are moments,

Whereupon turn, as on hinges, the gates of the wall adamantine!

“Here I remain!” he exclaimed, as he looked at the heavens above him,

Thanking the Lord whose breath had scattered the mist and the madness,

Wherein, blind and lost, to death he was staggering headlong.575

“Yonder snow-white cloud, that floats in the ether above me,

Seems like a hand that is pointing and beckoning over the ocean.

There is another hand, that is not so spectral and ghostlike,

Holding me, drawing me back, and clasping mine for protection.

Float, O hand of cloud, and vanish away in the ether!580

Roll thyself up like a fist, to threaten and daunt me; I heed not

Either your warning or menace, or any omen of evil!

There is no land so sacred, no air so pure and so wholesome,

As is the air she breathes, and the soil that is pressed by her footsteps.

Here for her sake will I stay, and like an invisible presence.585

Hover around her forever, protecting, supporting her weakness;

Yes! as my foot was the first that stepped on this rock at the landing,

So, with the blessing of God, shall it be the last at the leaving!”

Meanwhile the Master alert, but with dignified air and important,Scanning with watchful eye the tide and the wind and the weather,590Walked about on the sands, and the people crowded around himSaying a few last words, and enforcing his careful remembrance.Then, taking each by the hand, as if he were grasping a tiller,Into the boat he sprang, and in haste shoved off to his vessel.Glad in his heart to get rid of all this worry and flurry,595Glad to be gone from a land of sand and sickness and sorrow,Short allowance of victual, and plenty of nothing but Gospel!Lost in the sound of oars was the last farewell of the Pilgrims.O strong hearts and true! not one went back in the Mayflower!No, not one looked back, who had set his hand to this plowing!600

Meanwhile the Master alert, but with dignified air and important,

Scanning with watchful eye the tide and the wind and the weather,590

Walked about on the sands, and the people crowded around him

Saying a few last words, and enforcing his careful remembrance.

Then, taking each by the hand, as if he were grasping a tiller,

Into the boat he sprang, and in haste shoved off to his vessel.

Glad in his heart to get rid of all this worry and flurry,595

Glad to be gone from a land of sand and sickness and sorrow,

Short allowance of victual, and plenty of nothing but Gospel!

Lost in the sound of oars was the last farewell of the Pilgrims.

O strong hearts and true! not one went back in the Mayflower!

No, not one looked back, who had set his hand to this plowing!600

Soon were heard on board the shouts and songs of the sailorsHeaving the windlass round, and hoisting the ponderous anchor.Then the yards were braced, and all sails set to the west-wind,Blowing steady and strong; and the Mayflower sailed from the harbor,Rounded the point of the Gurnet, and leaving far to the southward605Island and cape of sand, and the Field of the First Encounter,Took the wind on her quarter, and stood for the open Atlantic,Borne on the send of the sea, and the swelling hearts of the Pilgrims.

Soon were heard on board the shouts and songs of the sailors

Heaving the windlass round, and hoisting the ponderous anchor.

Then the yards were braced, and all sails set to the west-wind,

Blowing steady and strong; and the Mayflower sailed from the harbor,

Rounded the point of the Gurnet, and leaving far to the southward605

Island and cape of sand, and the Field of the First Encounter,

Took the wind on her quarter, and stood for the open Atlantic,

Borne on the send of the sea, and the swelling hearts of the Pilgrims.

Long in silence they watched the receding sail of the vessel,Much endeared to them all, as something living and human;610Then, as if tilled with the spirit, and wrapt in a vision prophetic,Baring his hoary head, the excellent Elder of PlymouthSaid, “Let us pray!” and they prayed, and thanked the Lord and took courage.Mournfully sobbed the waves at the base of the rock, and above themBowed and whispered the wheat on the hill of death, and their kindred615Seemed to awake in their graves, and to join in the prayer that they uttered.Sun-illumined and white, on the eastern verge of the oceanGleamed the departing sail, like a marble slab in a graveyard;Buried beneath it lay forever all hope of escaping.Lo! as they turned to depart, they saw the form of an Indian,620Watching them from the hill; but while they spake with each other,Pointing with outstretched hands, and saying, “Look!” he had vanished.So they returned to their homes; but Alden lingered a little,Musing alone on the shore, and watching the wash of the billowsRound the base of the rock, and the sparkle and flash of the sunshine,625Like the spirit of God, moving visibly over the waters.

Long in silence they watched the receding sail of the vessel,

Much endeared to them all, as something living and human;610

Then, as if tilled with the spirit, and wrapt in a vision prophetic,

Baring his hoary head, the excellent Elder of Plymouth

Said, “Let us pray!” and they prayed, and thanked the Lord and took courage.

Mournfully sobbed the waves at the base of the rock, and above them

Bowed and whispered the wheat on the hill of death, and their kindred615

Seemed to awake in their graves, and to join in the prayer that they uttered.

Sun-illumined and white, on the eastern verge of the ocean

Gleamed the departing sail, like a marble slab in a graveyard;

Buried beneath it lay forever all hope of escaping.

Lo! as they turned to depart, they saw the form of an Indian,620

Watching them from the hill; but while they spake with each other,

Pointing with outstretched hands, and saying, “Look!” he had vanished.

So they returned to their homes; but Alden lingered a little,

Musing alone on the shore, and watching the wash of the billows

Round the base of the rock, and the sparkle and flash of the sunshine,625

Like the spirit of God, moving visibly over the waters.

Thus for a while he stood, and mused by the shore of the ocean,Thinking of many things, and most of all of Priscilla;And as if thought had the power to draw to itself, like the loadstone,Whatsoever it touches, by subtle laws of its nature,630Lo! as he turned to depart, Priscilla was standing beside him.“Are you so much offended, you will not speak to me?” said she.“Am I so much to blame, that yesterday, when you were pleadingWarmly the cause of another, my heart, impulsive and wayward,Pleaded your own, and spake out, forgetful perhaps of decorum?635Certainly you can forgive me for speaking so frankly, for sayingWhat I ought not to have said, yet now I can never unsay it;For there are moments in life, when the heart is so full of emotion,That if by chance it be shaken, or into its depths like a pebbleDrops some careless word, it overflows, and its secret,640Spilt on the ground like water, can never be gathered together.Yesterday I was shocked, when I heard you speak of Miles Standish,Praising his virtues, transforming his very defects into virtues,Praising his courage and strength, and even his fighting in Flanders,As if by fighting alone you could win the heart of a woman,645Quite overlooking yourself and the rest, in exalting your hero.Therefore I spake as I did, by an irresistible impulse.You will forgive me, I hope, for the sake of the friendship between us,Which is too true and too sacred to be so easily broken!”Thereupon answered John Alden, the scholar, the friend of Miles Standish:650“I was not angry with you, with myself alone I was angry,Seeing how badly I managed the matter I had in my keeping.”“No!” interrupted the maiden, with answer prompt and decisive;“No; you were angry with me, for speaking so frankly and freely.It was wrong, I acknowledge; for it is the fate of a woman655Long to be patient and silent, to wait like a ghost that is speechless,Till some questioning voice dissolves the spell of its silence.Hence is the inner life of so many suffering womenSunless and silent and deep, like subterranean riversRunning through caverns of darkness, unheard, unseen, and unfruitful,660Chafing their channels of stone, with endless and profitless murmurs.”Thereupon answered John Alden, the young man, the lover of women:“Heaven forbid it, Priscilla; and truly they seem to me alwaysMore like the beautiful rivers that watered the garden of Eden,More like the river Euphrates, through deserts of Havilah flowing,665Filling the land with delight, and memories sweet of the garden!”“All, by these words, I can see,” again interrupted the maiden,“How very little you prize me, or care for what I am saying.When from the depths of my heart, in pain and with secret misgiving,Frankly I speak to you, asking for sympathy only and kindness,670Straightway you take up my words, that are plain and direct and in earnest,Turn them away from their meaning, and answer with flattering phrases.This is not right, is not just, is not true to the best that is in you;For I know and esteem you, and feel that your nature is noble,Lifting mine up to a higher, a more ethereal level.675Therefore I value your friendship, and feel it perhaps the more keenlyIf you say aught that implies I am only as one among many,If you make use of those common and complimentary phrasesMost men think so fine, in dealing and speaking with women,But which women reject as insipid, if not as insulting.”680Mute and amazed was Alden; and listened and looked at Priscilla,Thinking he never had seen her more fair, more divine in her beauty.He who but yesterday pleaded so glibly the cause of another,Stood there embarrassed and silent, and seeking in vain for an answer.So the maiden went on, and little divined or imagined685What was at work in his heart, that made him so awkward and speechless.“Let us, then, be what we are, and speak what we think, and in all thingsKeep ourselves loyal to truth, and the sacred professions of friendship.It is no secret I tell you, nor am I ashamed to declare it:I have liked to be with you, to see you, to speak with you always.690So I was hurt at your words, and a little affronted to hear youUrge me to marry your friend, though he were the Captain Miles Standish.For I must tell you the truth: much more to me is your friendshipThan all the love he could give, were he twice the hero you think him.”Then she extended her hand, and Alden, who eagerly grasped it,695Felt all the wounds in his heart, that were aching and bleeding so sorely,Healed by the touch of that hand, and he said, with a voice full of feeling:“Yes, we must ever be friends; and of all who offer you friendshipLet me be ever the first, the truest, the nearest, and dearest!”Casting a farewell look at the glimmering sail of the Mayflower700Distant, but still in sight, and sinking below the horizon,Homeward together they walked, with a strange, indefinite feeling,That all the rest had departed and left them alone in the desert.But, as they went through the fields in the blessing and smile of the sunshine,Lighter grew their hearts, and Priscilla said very archly:705“Now that our terrible Captain has gone in pursuit of the Indians,Where he is happier far than he would be commanding a household,You may speak boldly, and tell me of all that happened between you,When you returned last night, and said how ungrateful you found me.”Thereupon answered John Alden, and told her the whole of the story,—710Told her his own despair, and the direful wrath of Miles Standish.Whereat the maiden smiled, and said between laughing and earnest,“He is a little chimney, and heated hot in a moment!”But as he gently rebuked her, and told her how much he had suffered,—How he had even determined to sail that day in the Mayflower,715And had remained for her sake, on hearing the dangers that threatened,—All her manner was changed, and she said with a faltering accent,“Truly I thank you for this: how good you have been to me always!”Thus, as a pilgrim devout, who toward Jerusalem journeys,Taking three steps in advance, and one reluctantly backward,720Urged by importunate zeal, and withheld by pangs of contrition;Slowly but steadily onward, receding yet ever advancing,Journeyed this Puritan youth to the Holy Land of his longings,Urged by the fervor of love, and withheld by remorseful misgivings.

Thus for a while he stood, and mused by the shore of the ocean,

Thinking of many things, and most of all of Priscilla;

And as if thought had the power to draw to itself, like the loadstone,

Whatsoever it touches, by subtle laws of its nature,630

Lo! as he turned to depart, Priscilla was standing beside him.

“Are you so much offended, you will not speak to me?” said she.“Am I so much to blame, that yesterday, when you were pleadingWarmly the cause of another, my heart, impulsive and wayward,Pleaded your own, and spake out, forgetful perhaps of decorum?635Certainly you can forgive me for speaking so frankly, for sayingWhat I ought not to have said, yet now I can never unsay it;For there are moments in life, when the heart is so full of emotion,That if by chance it be shaken, or into its depths like a pebbleDrops some careless word, it overflows, and its secret,640Spilt on the ground like water, can never be gathered together.Yesterday I was shocked, when I heard you speak of Miles Standish,Praising his virtues, transforming his very defects into virtues,Praising his courage and strength, and even his fighting in Flanders,As if by fighting alone you could win the heart of a woman,645Quite overlooking yourself and the rest, in exalting your hero.Therefore I spake as I did, by an irresistible impulse.You will forgive me, I hope, for the sake of the friendship between us,Which is too true and too sacred to be so easily broken!”Thereupon answered John Alden, the scholar, the friend of Miles Standish:650“I was not angry with you, with myself alone I was angry,Seeing how badly I managed the matter I had in my keeping.”“No!” interrupted the maiden, with answer prompt and decisive;“No; you were angry with me, for speaking so frankly and freely.It was wrong, I acknowledge; for it is the fate of a woman655Long to be patient and silent, to wait like a ghost that is speechless,Till some questioning voice dissolves the spell of its silence.Hence is the inner life of so many suffering womenSunless and silent and deep, like subterranean riversRunning through caverns of darkness, unheard, unseen, and unfruitful,660Chafing their channels of stone, with endless and profitless murmurs.”Thereupon answered John Alden, the young man, the lover of women:“Heaven forbid it, Priscilla; and truly they seem to me alwaysMore like the beautiful rivers that watered the garden of Eden,More like the river Euphrates, through deserts of Havilah flowing,665Filling the land with delight, and memories sweet of the garden!”“All, by these words, I can see,” again interrupted the maiden,“How very little you prize me, or care for what I am saying.When from the depths of my heart, in pain and with secret misgiving,Frankly I speak to you, asking for sympathy only and kindness,670Straightway you take up my words, that are plain and direct and in earnest,Turn them away from their meaning, and answer with flattering phrases.This is not right, is not just, is not true to the best that is in you;For I know and esteem you, and feel that your nature is noble,Lifting mine up to a higher, a more ethereal level.675Therefore I value your friendship, and feel it perhaps the more keenlyIf you say aught that implies I am only as one among many,If you make use of those common and complimentary phrasesMost men think so fine, in dealing and speaking with women,But which women reject as insipid, if not as insulting.”680

“Are you so much offended, you will not speak to me?” said she.

“Am I so much to blame, that yesterday, when you were pleading

Warmly the cause of another, my heart, impulsive and wayward,

Pleaded your own, and spake out, forgetful perhaps of decorum?635

Certainly you can forgive me for speaking so frankly, for saying

What I ought not to have said, yet now I can never unsay it;

For there are moments in life, when the heart is so full of emotion,

That if by chance it be shaken, or into its depths like a pebble

Drops some careless word, it overflows, and its secret,640

Spilt on the ground like water, can never be gathered together.

Yesterday I was shocked, when I heard you speak of Miles Standish,

Praising his virtues, transforming his very defects into virtues,

Praising his courage and strength, and even his fighting in Flanders,

As if by fighting alone you could win the heart of a woman,645

Quite overlooking yourself and the rest, in exalting your hero.

Therefore I spake as I did, by an irresistible impulse.

You will forgive me, I hope, for the sake of the friendship between us,

Which is too true and too sacred to be so easily broken!”

Thereupon answered John Alden, the scholar, the friend of Miles Standish:650

“I was not angry with you, with myself alone I was angry,

Seeing how badly I managed the matter I had in my keeping.”

“No!” interrupted the maiden, with answer prompt and decisive;

“No; you were angry with me, for speaking so frankly and freely.

It was wrong, I acknowledge; for it is the fate of a woman655

Long to be patient and silent, to wait like a ghost that is speechless,

Till some questioning voice dissolves the spell of its silence.

Hence is the inner life of so many suffering women

Sunless and silent and deep, like subterranean rivers

Running through caverns of darkness, unheard, unseen, and unfruitful,660

Chafing their channels of stone, with endless and profitless murmurs.”

Thereupon answered John Alden, the young man, the lover of women:

“Heaven forbid it, Priscilla; and truly they seem to me always

More like the beautiful rivers that watered the garden of Eden,

More like the river Euphrates, through deserts of Havilah flowing,665

Filling the land with delight, and memories sweet of the garden!”

“All, by these words, I can see,” again interrupted the maiden,

“How very little you prize me, or care for what I am saying.

When from the depths of my heart, in pain and with secret misgiving,

Frankly I speak to you, asking for sympathy only and kindness,670

Straightway you take up my words, that are plain and direct and in earnest,

Turn them away from their meaning, and answer with flattering phrases.

This is not right, is not just, is not true to the best that is in you;

For I know and esteem you, and feel that your nature is noble,

Lifting mine up to a higher, a more ethereal level.675

Therefore I value your friendship, and feel it perhaps the more keenly

If you say aught that implies I am only as one among many,

If you make use of those common and complimentary phrases

Most men think so fine, in dealing and speaking with women,

But which women reject as insipid, if not as insulting.”680

Mute and amazed was Alden; and listened and looked at Priscilla,Thinking he never had seen her more fair, more divine in her beauty.He who but yesterday pleaded so glibly the cause of another,Stood there embarrassed and silent, and seeking in vain for an answer.So the maiden went on, and little divined or imagined685What was at work in his heart, that made him so awkward and speechless.“Let us, then, be what we are, and speak what we think, and in all thingsKeep ourselves loyal to truth, and the sacred professions of friendship.It is no secret I tell you, nor am I ashamed to declare it:I have liked to be with you, to see you, to speak with you always.690So I was hurt at your words, and a little affronted to hear youUrge me to marry your friend, though he were the Captain Miles Standish.For I must tell you the truth: much more to me is your friendshipThan all the love he could give, were he twice the hero you think him.”Then she extended her hand, and Alden, who eagerly grasped it,695Felt all the wounds in his heart, that were aching and bleeding so sorely,Healed by the touch of that hand, and he said, with a voice full of feeling:“Yes, we must ever be friends; and of all who offer you friendshipLet me be ever the first, the truest, the nearest, and dearest!”

Mute and amazed was Alden; and listened and looked at Priscilla,

Thinking he never had seen her more fair, more divine in her beauty.

He who but yesterday pleaded so glibly the cause of another,

Stood there embarrassed and silent, and seeking in vain for an answer.

So the maiden went on, and little divined or imagined685

What was at work in his heart, that made him so awkward and speechless.

“Let us, then, be what we are, and speak what we think, and in all things

Keep ourselves loyal to truth, and the sacred professions of friendship.

It is no secret I tell you, nor am I ashamed to declare it:

I have liked to be with you, to see you, to speak with you always.690

So I was hurt at your words, and a little affronted to hear you

Urge me to marry your friend, though he were the Captain Miles Standish.

For I must tell you the truth: much more to me is your friendship

Than all the love he could give, were he twice the hero you think him.”

Then she extended her hand, and Alden, who eagerly grasped it,695

Felt all the wounds in his heart, that were aching and bleeding so sorely,

Healed by the touch of that hand, and he said, with a voice full of feeling:

“Yes, we must ever be friends; and of all who offer you friendship

Let me be ever the first, the truest, the nearest, and dearest!”

Casting a farewell look at the glimmering sail of the Mayflower700Distant, but still in sight, and sinking below the horizon,Homeward together they walked, with a strange, indefinite feeling,That all the rest had departed and left them alone in the desert.But, as they went through the fields in the blessing and smile of the sunshine,Lighter grew their hearts, and Priscilla said very archly:705“Now that our terrible Captain has gone in pursuit of the Indians,Where he is happier far than he would be commanding a household,You may speak boldly, and tell me of all that happened between you,When you returned last night, and said how ungrateful you found me.”Thereupon answered John Alden, and told her the whole of the story,—710Told her his own despair, and the direful wrath of Miles Standish.Whereat the maiden smiled, and said between laughing and earnest,“He is a little chimney, and heated hot in a moment!”But as he gently rebuked her, and told her how much he had suffered,—How he had even determined to sail that day in the Mayflower,715And had remained for her sake, on hearing the dangers that threatened,—All her manner was changed, and she said with a faltering accent,“Truly I thank you for this: how good you have been to me always!”

Casting a farewell look at the glimmering sail of the Mayflower700

Distant, but still in sight, and sinking below the horizon,

Homeward together they walked, with a strange, indefinite feeling,

That all the rest had departed and left them alone in the desert.

But, as they went through the fields in the blessing and smile of the sunshine,

Lighter grew their hearts, and Priscilla said very archly:705

“Now that our terrible Captain has gone in pursuit of the Indians,

Where he is happier far than he would be commanding a household,

You may speak boldly, and tell me of all that happened between you,

When you returned last night, and said how ungrateful you found me.”

Thereupon answered John Alden, and told her the whole of the story,—710

Told her his own despair, and the direful wrath of Miles Standish.

Whereat the maiden smiled, and said between laughing and earnest,

“He is a little chimney, and heated hot in a moment!”

But as he gently rebuked her, and told her how much he had suffered,—

How he had even determined to sail that day in the Mayflower,715

And had remained for her sake, on hearing the dangers that threatened,—

All her manner was changed, and she said with a faltering accent,

“Truly I thank you for this: how good you have been to me always!”

Thus, as a pilgrim devout, who toward Jerusalem journeys,Taking three steps in advance, and one reluctantly backward,720Urged by importunate zeal, and withheld by pangs of contrition;Slowly but steadily onward, receding yet ever advancing,Journeyed this Puritan youth to the Holy Land of his longings,Urged by the fervor of love, and withheld by remorseful misgivings.

Thus, as a pilgrim devout, who toward Jerusalem journeys,

Taking three steps in advance, and one reluctantly backward,720

Urged by importunate zeal, and withheld by pangs of contrition;

Slowly but steadily onward, receding yet ever advancing,

Journeyed this Puritan youth to the Holy Land of his longings,

Urged by the fervor of love, and withheld by remorseful misgivings.

Meanwhile the stalwart Miles Standish was marching steadily northward,725Winding through forest and swamp, and along the trend of the seashore,All day long, with hardly a halt, the fire of his angerBurning and crackling within, and the sulphurous odor of powderSeeming more sweet to his nostrils than all the scents of the forest.Silent and moody he went, and much he revolved his discomfort;730He who was used to success, and to easy victories always,Thus to be flouted, rejected, and laughed to scorn by a maiden,Thus to be mocked and betrayed by the friend whom most he had trusted!Ah! ’twas too much to be borne, and he fretted and chafed in his armor!“I alone am to blame,” he muttered, “for mine was the folly.735What has a rough old soldier, grown grim and gray in the harness,Used to the camp and its ways, to do with the wooing of maidens?’Twas but a dream,—let it pass,—let it vanish like so many others!What I thought was a flower, is only a weed, and is worthless;Out of my heart will I pluck it, and throw it away, and henceforward740Be but a fighter of battles, a lover and wooer of dangers!”Thus he revolved in his mind his sorry defeat and discomfort,While he was marching by day or lying at night in the forest,Looking up at the trees and the constellations beyond them.After a three days’ march he came to an Indian encampment745Pitched on the edge of a meadow, between the sea and the forest;Women at work by the tents, and the warriors, horrid with warpaint,Seated about a fire, and smoking and talking together;Who, when they saw from afar the sudden approach of the white men,Saw the flash of the sun on breastplate and saber and musket,750Straightway leaped to their feet, and two, from among them advancing,Came to parley with Standish, and offer him furs as a present;Friendship was in their looks, but in their hearts there was hatred.Braves of the tribe were these, and brothers, gigantic in stature,Huge as Goliath of Gath, or the terrible Og, king of Bashan;755One was Pecksuot named, and the other was called Wattawamat.Round their necks were suspended their knives in scabbards of wampum,Two-edged trenchant knives, with points as sharp as a needle.Other arms had they none, for they were cunning and crafty.“Welcome, English!” they said,—these words they had learned from the traders760Touching at times on the coast, to barter and chaffer for peltries.Then in their native tongue they begun to parley with Standish,Through his guide and interpreter, Hobomok, friend of the white man,Begging for blankets and knives, but mostly for muskets and powder,Kept by the white man, they said, concealed, with the plague, in his cellars,765Ready to be let loose, and destroy his brother the red man!But when Standish refused, and said he would give them the Bible,Suddenly changing their tone, they began to boast and to bluster.Then Wattawamat advanced with a stride in front of the other,And, with a lofty demeanor, thus vauntingly spake to the Captain:770“Now Wattawamat can see, by the fiery eyes of the Captain,Angry is he in his heart; but the heart of the brave WattawamatIs not afraid at the sight. He was not born of a woman,But on a mountain, at night, from an oak-tree riven by lightning,Forth he sprang at a bound, with all his weapons about him,775Shouting, ‘Who is there here to fight with the brave Wattawamat?’”Then he unsheathed his knife, and, whetting the blade on his left hand,Held it aloft and displayed a woman’s face on the handle,Saying, with bitter expression and look of sinister meaning:“I have another at home, with the face of a man on the handle;780By-and-by they shall marry; and there will be plenty of children!”Then stood Pecksuot forth, self-vaunting, insulting Miles Standish;While with his fingers he patted the knife that hung at his bosom,Drawing it half from its sheath, and plunging it back, as he muttered,“By-and-by it shall see; it shall eat; ah, ha! but shall speak not!785This is the mighty Captain the white men have sent to destroy us!He is a little man; let him go and work with the women!”Meanwhile Standish had noted the faces and figures of IndiansPeeping and creeping about from bush to tree in the forest,Feigning to look for game, with arrows set on their bowstrings,790Drawing about him still closer and closer the net of their ambush.But undaunted he stood, and dissembled and treated them smoothly;So the old chronicles say, that were writ in the days of the fathers.But when he heard their defiance, the boast, the taunt, and the insult,All the hot blood of his race, of Sir Hugh and of Thurston de Standish,795Boiled and beat in his heart, and swelled in the veins of his temples.Headlong he leaped on the boaster, and, snatching his knife from its scabbard,Plunged it into his heart, and, reeling backward, the savageFell with his face to the sky, and a fiendlike fierceness upon it.Straight there arose from the forest the awful sound of the war-whoop,800And, like a flurry of snow on the whistling wind of December,Swift and sudden and keen came a flight of feathery arrows.Then came a cloud of smoke, and out of the cloud came the lightning,Out of the lightning thunder; and death unseen ran before it.Frightened, the savages fled for shelter in swamp and in thicket,805Hotly pursued and beset; but their sachem, the brave Wattawamat,Fled not; he was dead. Unswerving and swift had a bulletPassed through his brain, and he fell with both hands clutching the greensward,Seeming in death to hold back from his foe the land of his fathers.There on the flowers of the meadow the warriors lay, and above them810Silent, with folded arms, stood Hobomok, friend of the white man.Smiling at length he exclaimed to the stalwart Captain of Plymouth:“Pecksuot bragged very loud, of his courage, his strength, and his stature,—Mocked the great Captain, and called him a little man; but I see nowBig enough have you been to lay him speechless before you!”815Thus the first battle was fought and won by the stalwart Miles Standish.When the tidings thereof were brought to the village of Plymouth,And as a trophy of war the head of the brave WattawamatScowled from the roof of the fort, which at once was a church and a fortress,All who beheld it rejoiced, and praised the Lord, and took courage.820Only Priscilla averted her face from this specter of terror,Thanking God in her heart that she had not married Miles Standish;Shrinking, fearing almost, lest, coming home from his battles,He should lay claim to her hand, as the prize and reward of his valor.

Meanwhile the stalwart Miles Standish was marching steadily northward,725

Winding through forest and swamp, and along the trend of the seashore,

All day long, with hardly a halt, the fire of his anger

Burning and crackling within, and the sulphurous odor of powder

Seeming more sweet to his nostrils than all the scents of the forest.

Silent and moody he went, and much he revolved his discomfort;730

He who was used to success, and to easy victories always,

Thus to be flouted, rejected, and laughed to scorn by a maiden,

Thus to be mocked and betrayed by the friend whom most he had trusted!

Ah! ’twas too much to be borne, and he fretted and chafed in his armor!

“I alone am to blame,” he muttered, “for mine was the folly.735What has a rough old soldier, grown grim and gray in the harness,Used to the camp and its ways, to do with the wooing of maidens?’Twas but a dream,—let it pass,—let it vanish like so many others!What I thought was a flower, is only a weed, and is worthless;Out of my heart will I pluck it, and throw it away, and henceforward740Be but a fighter of battles, a lover and wooer of dangers!”Thus he revolved in his mind his sorry defeat and discomfort,While he was marching by day or lying at night in the forest,Looking up at the trees and the constellations beyond them.

“I alone am to blame,” he muttered, “for mine was the folly.735

What has a rough old soldier, grown grim and gray in the harness,

Used to the camp and its ways, to do with the wooing of maidens?

’Twas but a dream,—let it pass,—let it vanish like so many others!

What I thought was a flower, is only a weed, and is worthless;

Out of my heart will I pluck it, and throw it away, and henceforward740

Be but a fighter of battles, a lover and wooer of dangers!”

Thus he revolved in his mind his sorry defeat and discomfort,

While he was marching by day or lying at night in the forest,

Looking up at the trees and the constellations beyond them.

After a three days’ march he came to an Indian encampment745Pitched on the edge of a meadow, between the sea and the forest;Women at work by the tents, and the warriors, horrid with warpaint,Seated about a fire, and smoking and talking together;Who, when they saw from afar the sudden approach of the white men,Saw the flash of the sun on breastplate and saber and musket,750Straightway leaped to their feet, and two, from among them advancing,Came to parley with Standish, and offer him furs as a present;Friendship was in their looks, but in their hearts there was hatred.Braves of the tribe were these, and brothers, gigantic in stature,Huge as Goliath of Gath, or the terrible Og, king of Bashan;755One was Pecksuot named, and the other was called Wattawamat.Round their necks were suspended their knives in scabbards of wampum,Two-edged trenchant knives, with points as sharp as a needle.Other arms had they none, for they were cunning and crafty.“Welcome, English!” they said,—these words they had learned from the traders760Touching at times on the coast, to barter and chaffer for peltries.Then in their native tongue they begun to parley with Standish,Through his guide and interpreter, Hobomok, friend of the white man,Begging for blankets and knives, but mostly for muskets and powder,Kept by the white man, they said, concealed, with the plague, in his cellars,765Ready to be let loose, and destroy his brother the red man!But when Standish refused, and said he would give them the Bible,Suddenly changing their tone, they began to boast and to bluster.Then Wattawamat advanced with a stride in front of the other,And, with a lofty demeanor, thus vauntingly spake to the Captain:770“Now Wattawamat can see, by the fiery eyes of the Captain,Angry is he in his heart; but the heart of the brave WattawamatIs not afraid at the sight. He was not born of a woman,But on a mountain, at night, from an oak-tree riven by lightning,Forth he sprang at a bound, with all his weapons about him,775Shouting, ‘Who is there here to fight with the brave Wattawamat?’”Then he unsheathed his knife, and, whetting the blade on his left hand,Held it aloft and displayed a woman’s face on the handle,Saying, with bitter expression and look of sinister meaning:“I have another at home, with the face of a man on the handle;780By-and-by they shall marry; and there will be plenty of children!”

After a three days’ march he came to an Indian encampment745

Pitched on the edge of a meadow, between the sea and the forest;

Women at work by the tents, and the warriors, horrid with warpaint,

Seated about a fire, and smoking and talking together;

Who, when they saw from afar the sudden approach of the white men,

Saw the flash of the sun on breastplate and saber and musket,750

Straightway leaped to their feet, and two, from among them advancing,

Came to parley with Standish, and offer him furs as a present;

Friendship was in their looks, but in their hearts there was hatred.

Braves of the tribe were these, and brothers, gigantic in stature,

Huge as Goliath of Gath, or the terrible Og, king of Bashan;755

One was Pecksuot named, and the other was called Wattawamat.

Round their necks were suspended their knives in scabbards of wampum,

Two-edged trenchant knives, with points as sharp as a needle.

Other arms had they none, for they were cunning and crafty.

“Welcome, English!” they said,—these words they had learned from the traders760

Touching at times on the coast, to barter and chaffer for peltries.

Then in their native tongue they begun to parley with Standish,

Through his guide and interpreter, Hobomok, friend of the white man,

Begging for blankets and knives, but mostly for muskets and powder,

Kept by the white man, they said, concealed, with the plague, in his cellars,765

Ready to be let loose, and destroy his brother the red man!

But when Standish refused, and said he would give them the Bible,

Suddenly changing their tone, they began to boast and to bluster.

Then Wattawamat advanced with a stride in front of the other,

And, with a lofty demeanor, thus vauntingly spake to the Captain:770

“Now Wattawamat can see, by the fiery eyes of the Captain,

Angry is he in his heart; but the heart of the brave Wattawamat

Is not afraid at the sight. He was not born of a woman,

But on a mountain, at night, from an oak-tree riven by lightning,

Forth he sprang at a bound, with all his weapons about him,775

Shouting, ‘Who is there here to fight with the brave Wattawamat?’”

Then he unsheathed his knife, and, whetting the blade on his left hand,

Held it aloft and displayed a woman’s face on the handle,

Saying, with bitter expression and look of sinister meaning:

“I have another at home, with the face of a man on the handle;780

By-and-by they shall marry; and there will be plenty of children!”

Then stood Pecksuot forth, self-vaunting, insulting Miles Standish;While with his fingers he patted the knife that hung at his bosom,Drawing it half from its sheath, and plunging it back, as he muttered,“By-and-by it shall see; it shall eat; ah, ha! but shall speak not!785This is the mighty Captain the white men have sent to destroy us!He is a little man; let him go and work with the women!”

Then stood Pecksuot forth, self-vaunting, insulting Miles Standish;

While with his fingers he patted the knife that hung at his bosom,

Drawing it half from its sheath, and plunging it back, as he muttered,

“By-and-by it shall see; it shall eat; ah, ha! but shall speak not!785

This is the mighty Captain the white men have sent to destroy us!

He is a little man; let him go and work with the women!”

Meanwhile Standish had noted the faces and figures of IndiansPeeping and creeping about from bush to tree in the forest,Feigning to look for game, with arrows set on their bowstrings,790Drawing about him still closer and closer the net of their ambush.But undaunted he stood, and dissembled and treated them smoothly;So the old chronicles say, that were writ in the days of the fathers.But when he heard their defiance, the boast, the taunt, and the insult,All the hot blood of his race, of Sir Hugh and of Thurston de Standish,795Boiled and beat in his heart, and swelled in the veins of his temples.Headlong he leaped on the boaster, and, snatching his knife from its scabbard,Plunged it into his heart, and, reeling backward, the savageFell with his face to the sky, and a fiendlike fierceness upon it.Straight there arose from the forest the awful sound of the war-whoop,800And, like a flurry of snow on the whistling wind of December,Swift and sudden and keen came a flight of feathery arrows.Then came a cloud of smoke, and out of the cloud came the lightning,Out of the lightning thunder; and death unseen ran before it.Frightened, the savages fled for shelter in swamp and in thicket,805Hotly pursued and beset; but their sachem, the brave Wattawamat,Fled not; he was dead. Unswerving and swift had a bulletPassed through his brain, and he fell with both hands clutching the greensward,Seeming in death to hold back from his foe the land of his fathers.

Meanwhile Standish had noted the faces and figures of Indians

Peeping and creeping about from bush to tree in the forest,

Feigning to look for game, with arrows set on their bowstrings,790

Drawing about him still closer and closer the net of their ambush.

But undaunted he stood, and dissembled and treated them smoothly;

So the old chronicles say, that were writ in the days of the fathers.

But when he heard their defiance, the boast, the taunt, and the insult,

All the hot blood of his race, of Sir Hugh and of Thurston de Standish,795

Boiled and beat in his heart, and swelled in the veins of his temples.

Headlong he leaped on the boaster, and, snatching his knife from its scabbard,

Plunged it into his heart, and, reeling backward, the savage

Fell with his face to the sky, and a fiendlike fierceness upon it.

Straight there arose from the forest the awful sound of the war-whoop,800

And, like a flurry of snow on the whistling wind of December,

Swift and sudden and keen came a flight of feathery arrows.

Then came a cloud of smoke, and out of the cloud came the lightning,

Out of the lightning thunder; and death unseen ran before it.

Frightened, the savages fled for shelter in swamp and in thicket,805

Hotly pursued and beset; but their sachem, the brave Wattawamat,

Fled not; he was dead. Unswerving and swift had a bullet

Passed through his brain, and he fell with both hands clutching the greensward,

Seeming in death to hold back from his foe the land of his fathers.

There on the flowers of the meadow the warriors lay, and above them810Silent, with folded arms, stood Hobomok, friend of the white man.Smiling at length he exclaimed to the stalwart Captain of Plymouth:“Pecksuot bragged very loud, of his courage, his strength, and his stature,—Mocked the great Captain, and called him a little man; but I see nowBig enough have you been to lay him speechless before you!”815

There on the flowers of the meadow the warriors lay, and above them810

Silent, with folded arms, stood Hobomok, friend of the white man.

Smiling at length he exclaimed to the stalwart Captain of Plymouth:

“Pecksuot bragged very loud, of his courage, his strength, and his stature,—

Mocked the great Captain, and called him a little man; but I see now

Big enough have you been to lay him speechless before you!”815

Thus the first battle was fought and won by the stalwart Miles Standish.When the tidings thereof were brought to the village of Plymouth,And as a trophy of war the head of the brave WattawamatScowled from the roof of the fort, which at once was a church and a fortress,All who beheld it rejoiced, and praised the Lord, and took courage.820Only Priscilla averted her face from this specter of terror,Thanking God in her heart that she had not married Miles Standish;Shrinking, fearing almost, lest, coming home from his battles,He should lay claim to her hand, as the prize and reward of his valor.

Thus the first battle was fought and won by the stalwart Miles Standish.

When the tidings thereof were brought to the village of Plymouth,

And as a trophy of war the head of the brave Wattawamat

Scowled from the roof of the fort, which at once was a church and a fortress,

All who beheld it rejoiced, and praised the Lord, and took courage.820

Only Priscilla averted her face from this specter of terror,

Thanking God in her heart that she had not married Miles Standish;

Shrinking, fearing almost, lest, coming home from his battles,

He should lay claim to her hand, as the prize and reward of his valor.

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