But if we reverence the names of those who have read for us the mysteries of the visible heavens, shall we not reverence more, him who would unbind the fetters that for centuries have cramped the human mind, and shackled the conscience, that connecting link between God and man, and open for us the avenues to the very Heaven of heavens? We say, then, let there be for the name of Roger Williams an exalted place,—an illuminated page in the history of Humanity.

Rhode-Island has proved herself worthy of her illustrious founder. In the revolutionary struggle, she was first in the field-and renounced her allegiance to Great-Britain two months before the Declaration of Independence by Congress. The idea of a navy was first suggested in her General Assembly; she furnished two of of the four ships that composed the first American fleet,—many of the officers, and the first and only Admiral. And we need not say how the gallant Perry and his brave Newport followers, sustained on Lake Erie, the honor of that which their fathers had so well begun.

It was thought that the floating literature of Rhode-Island contained much that was worthy of preservation; and to give to such passages a "local habitation," has been the object of this publica

tion.

From circumstances that could not be controlled, many distinguished names have been omitted; and it is believed that another year, a similar and equally interesting collection might be prepared. To THE CITIZENS OF RHODE-ISLAND THIS VOLUME IS RE

SPECTFULLY DEDICATED, BY THE

Providence, Dec. 1, 1840.

EDITOR.

THE RHODE-ISLAND BOOK.

INTRODUCTION TO WHATCHEER.

A POEM.

BY THE HON. JOB DURFEE.

(Addressed to the Rev. Romeo Elton.)

WHAT time, dear ELTON, we were wont to rove,
From classic Brown along fair Seekonk's vale,
And in the murmurs of his storied cove,

Hear barbarous voices still our Founder hail;
E'en then my bosom with young rapture strove
To give to deathless verse the exile's tale,
And every ripple's moan, or breeze's sigh,
Brought back whole centuries as it murmured by.

But soon the brittle dream of youth was gone,
And different labors to our lots were given:

You, at the shrine of peace and glory shone;

Sublime your toils, for still your theme was heaven

I, upon life's tempestuous billows thrown

A little bark before the tempest drivenStrove for a time the surging tide to breast, And up its rolling mountains sought for rest.

Wearied, at length, with the unceasing strife,
I gave my pinnace to the harbor's lee,
And left that Ocean, still with tempests rife,
To mad ambition's heartless rivalry;

No longer venturing for exalted life,

(For storms and quicksands have no charms for me,)

I, in the listless labors of the swain,

Provoke no turmoil, and awake no pain.

To drive the team afield, and guide the plough,
Or lead the herds to graze the dewy mead,
Wakes not the glance of lynx-eyed rival now,

And makes no heart with disappointment bleed;
Once more I joy to see the rivers flow,

The lambkins sport, and brindled oxen feed, And o'er the tranquil soul returns the dream, Which once she cherished by fair Seekonk's stream.

And when stern winter breathes the chilling storm,
And night comes down on earth in mantle hoar,
I guide the herds and flocks to shelter warm,
And sate their hunger from the gathered store;
Then round the cottage hearth the circle form

Of childhood lovelier than the vernal flower,

Partake its harmless glee and prattle gay,
And soothe my soul to tune the artless lay.

Thus were the numbers taught at first to flow,
Scarce conscious that they bore a tale along-

Beneath hand still would the pages grow

my

They were not labor but the joy of song-
Still every line would unsung beauties shew
In Williams' soul, and still the stream prolong;
Till all enraptured with the theme sublime,

My thoughts spontaneous sought the embodying rhyme.

The winds of March o'er Narraganset's bay

Move in their strength-the waves with foam are white, O'er Seekonk's tide the waving branches play, The woods roar o'er resounding plain and height; 'Twixt sailing clouds, the sun's inconstant ray

But glances on the scene-then fades from sight;
The frequent showers dash from the passing clouds;
The hills are peeping through their wintry shrouds.

Dissolving snows each downward channel fill,
Each swollen brook a foaming torrent brawls,
Old Seekonk murmurs, and from every hill,

Answers aloud the coming waterfalls;

Deep-voiced Pawtucket thunders louder still;

To dark Mooshausick joyously he calls,

Who breaks his bondage, and, through forests brown, Murmurs the hoarse response, and rolls his tribute down.

But hark! that sound, above the cataracts

And hollow winds in this wild solitude

Seems passing strange. Who, with the laboring axe, On Seekonk's eastern marge, invades the wood; Stroke follows stroke-some sturdy hind attacks

Yon ancient groves which from their birth have stood Unmoved by steel-and startled at the sound, The wild deer snuffs the gales-then with a bound

Vaults o'er the thickets, and, down yonder glen,
His antlers vanish-on yon shaggy height
Sits the lone wolf, half peering from his den,
And howls regardless of the morning light-
Unwonted sounds and a strange denizen

Vex his repose-then, cowering with affright
He shrinks away-for with a crackling sound,
Yon lofty hemlock bows, and thunders to the ground.