And still with brawny arms impelled the oar;
“The clans from Narraganset far and wide,
And every tribe from Pokanoket’s shore,
There smoke the pipe, and lay the axe aside,—
The pipe my chief to Potowomet bore;
Much they rejoice—their ancient hate forego,
And deem the White Chief a good Manittoo.”
XVI.
A secret joy o’er Father Williams’ breast
Stole like the fragrance of a balmy morn,