« ПредишнаНапред »
MEANWHILE the stalwart Miles Standish was marching steadily northward,
Winding through forest and swamp, and along the trend of the sea-shore,
All day long, with hardly a halt, the fire of his anger
Burning and crackling within, and the sulphurous odor of powder
Thus to be flouted, rejected, and laughed to scorn by a maiden,
Thus to be mocked and betrayed by the friend whom most he had trusted! Ah! 'twas too much to be borne, and he fretted and chafed in his armor!
“I alone am to blame,” he muttered, “for mine was the folly.
What has a rough old soldier, grown grim and gray in the harness,
Used to the camp and its ways, to do with the wooing of maidens?
'Twas but a dream, let it pass,-let it vanish like so many others!
What I thought was a flower, is only a weed, and is worthless ;
Out of my heart will I pluck it, and throw it away, and henceforward
Looking up at the trees, and the constellations beyond them.
After a three days' march he came to an Indian encampment
Pitched on the edge of a meadow, between the sea and the forest;