Till his awed branches trembled, leaf and limb,
And grouped her churchyard shapes of fantasie
Round merry moonlight’s meadow-fountain’s brim,
And mocking for a space the dread decree,
Brought back to dead, cold lips the parted breath,
And changed to banquet-board the bier of death,
XVIII.
None knew—except a patient, precious few,
Who’ve read the folios of one Cotton Mather,
A chronicler of tales more strange than true,
New-England’s chaplain, and her history’s father;
A second Monmouth’s Geoffrey, a new
Herodotus, their laurelled victor rather,
For in one art he soars above them high:
The Greek or Welshman does not always lie.
XIX.
Know ye the venerable Cotton? He
Was the first publisher’s tourist on this station;
The first who made, by labelling earth and sea,
A huge book, and a handsome speculation:
And ours was then a land of mystery,
Fit theme for poetry’s exaggeration,
The wildest wonder of the month; and there
He wandered freely, like a bird or bear,
