But fly at morn into the forest drear.
XXIII.
“Thou art to voyage an unexploréd flood;
No chart is there thy lonely bark to steer;
Beneath her, rocks—around her, tempests rude,
And persecution’s billows in her rear,
Shall shake thy soul till it is near subdued:
But when the welcome of ‘What cheer! What cheer!’
Shall greet thine ears from Indian multitude,
Cast thou thine Anchor there, and trust in God.”