My hatchet, too—its service I require
To clip my fuel desert wilds among;
With these I go to found, in forests drear,
A State where none shall persecution fear.”
XXXI.
“What! goest thou, Roger, in this chilling storm?
Wait! wait at least until its rage is o’er;
Its wrath will bar e’en persecution’s arm
From thee and me until it fails to roar.
Oh, what protecting hand from lurking harm