The Song of the Exile--A Canadian Epic | Page 2

149
Dear Little Ethel 151
To D. R. P. 153
Christmas 158
A Serenade 160
THE
SONG OF THE EXILE.
_A CANADIAN EPIC_.
CANTO THE FIRST.
I.
Ye shores of England, as ye fast recede
The pain of parting rends my
weary breast.
I must regret--yet there is little need
That I should
mourn, for only wild unrest
Is mine while in my native land I roam.

Thou gav'st me birth, but cannot give a home.
II.
Yet happy were the days that have been mine,
So happy that those
days must needs be few.
It could not be that that bright sun would
shine
For many months, and while its light was new
The clouds
arose, and, in one fated day,
The jealous storm had swept my joys
away.
III.
That fated day, when I believed that all
The hopes that I had
cherished in the past
Would be fulfilled, and I should fondly call


The being whom I loved my own at last:
Then fell the storm, and
bursting on my head,
Still saved my body when my soul was dead.
IV.
I loved her dearly, and my heart was set
On winning her. My only
aim in life
Was to secure her love, and so forget
The world
beside--my world would be my wife.
I never loved another, her alone

I loved, and, loving, longed to call my own.
V.
The summer months were passed in tortured bliss.
My love had
grown, but that it could not grow;
It all-enveloped me, and one sweet
kiss
From her dear lips had made my bosom glow
With happiness;
and many months of pain
Had been as nothing, that one kiss to gain.
VI.
And, when the many-tinted Autumn's reign
Succeeded Summer's
more congenial sway,
I told her of the mingled joy and pain
That
stirred my soul throughout each Summer's day.
And whispered, in
emotion's softest tone,
The love that I had feared before to own.
VII.
She listened silently, then, sweetly shy,
She laid her gentle head upon
my breast.
And, in the liquid depths of each blue eye,
I read the
love her lips had not confessed;
And quickly, fondly, pressed her to
my heart,
Vowing that none should keep us two apart.
VIII.
Ah! happy were the months that followed then,
The months that flew
as rapidly as days;
And sweet the stolen hours of meeting when
We
listened to the nightingale's sad lays,
Or, seated on a rustic bench

alone,
Forgot all else in glad communion.
IX.
I had not asked her father for her hand;
He was a baronet of ancient
blood.
Proud of his lineage, jealous of his land;
His pride was such
as boded me no good.
I was an author, not unknown to fame,
But
could not boast a title to my name.
X.
Sore did my loved one beg me to confess
My love to him, and ask for
his consent.
He loved her well, and could not fail to bless
Our union;
his pride had oft unbent
To her, and she had now but little fear
That
he would hear me with a willing ear.
XI.
I gladly heard her speak in confident
And reassuring tones, and all the
doubt
That had been mine now vanished, and I went,
With
lightsome heart, to seek her father out:
And prayed him give his
daughter for my wife,
And thus confer a blessing on my life.
XII.
He heard me silently, nor did he speak
For full two minutes after I
had ceased;
Then, while his eye flashed, and his livid cheek

Betrayed his passion, was his tongue released;
And, in vituperative
tones, he swore
That I should never cross his threshold more.
XIII.
Was this my gratitude for patronage,
That I should thus inveigle his
one daughter,
And seek to supplement my sorry wage
By the rich
dowry that her marriage brought her?
He was a baronet of ancient
name;
No parvenu his daughter's hand should claim.

XIV.
His words enraged me, but I checked my wrath
For her dear sake,
whose love alone that fire
Could quench, and mildly arguments put
forth
To soothe the baronet, and calm his ire.
But useless all the
arguments I wove;
In foaming rage he cursed me and my love.
XV.
What need to speak of all that next ensued?
Still constantly,
throughout those weary days,
Impelled by hope, with fondest love
imbued,
Did I renew my suit. By bold essays
I sought to