Whose swollen streamlet murmurs down the glade,
Where groves of hemlock and of cedars green
Oppose to northern storms a barricade,
Stands the first mansion of his rude demesne,
A slender wigwam by red Waban made;
Their common shelter from the wintry blast;
And place of rest when daily toils are past.
VII.
Yet from the storm he seldom shrinks away,
With his own hands he labors now to rear