LXXI.
Thus spoke our Sire, and now, with ready hand
And spirits lightened, Mary did prepare
For their departure to another land,—
Alas! they knew not how and knew not where.
At eventide, red Waban from the strand,
The children from the glade, with cheerless air
Revisited the cot.—One more sad night,
And thence they journey at the rising light.
LXXII.