XLVII.
Waban and Williams only tarried there,
And for the journey soon began to trim;
The red man doft his plumes, and loosed his hair,
And cleansed his visage of its colors grim;
Our Founder chose his Indian gifts to bear,
And pipe of peace, as well becoming him;
And forth they sallied, as from middle sky
The sun looked down between the branches high.
XLVIII.