The Song of the Exile-A Canadian Epic Part 1

The Song of the Exile--A Canadian Epic.

by Wilfred S. Skeats.

_DEDICATION_.

_To Thee, whose cheering words have urged me on When fainting heart advised me to stay My halting pen, and leave my task undone: To Thee, I humbly dedicate this lay.

Strong, womanly heart! whose long-enduring pain Has not sufficed to rend thy faith in twain, But rather teaches thee to sympathise With those whose path through pain and darkness lies Thyself forgetting, if but thou canst be Of aid to others in adversity; The helpful word, the approbative smile From thee have ever greeted me, the while None other cheered. Then let this tribute be A token of my grat.i.tude to Thee_.

CANTO THE FIRST.

I.

Ye sh.o.r.es 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 s.h.i.+ne 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 pa.s.sed 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 t.i.tle 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 rea.s.suring 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 pa.s.sion, was his tongue released; And, in vituperative tones, he swore That I should never cross his threshold more.

XIII.

Was this my grat.i.tude 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.