The Song of the Exile-A Canadian Epic Part 16

Deep disappointment constantly renewed Has weakened us; but still we hope to gain That brighter life. But oh! if we'd reviewed, At first, that life of long-continued pain, We scarce had found the strength to struggle through The path o'ershadowed with so dark a hue.

XLIV.

But each new day has brought a new-born hope, Each night of rest has strengthened us anew, And given us again the power to cope With pain and trial; and we still pursue Our way in faith, and day by day we cherish The hope that on _that_ day our pain will perish.

XLV.

Thus is it best that we should never know What is to be, but walking in the path Appointed, thank our G.o.d who made it so; And daily forward press our way in faith Unquestioningly, knowing well that He, Who chose that path, is wiser far than we.

XLVI.

Upon the waters now the sun has poured His morning light; each little ripple gleams In joy because the day has been restored, And dances lightly in its welcome beams.

And gladly, brightly on the wavelets go, And musically murmur as they flow.

XLVII.

And as they flow they breathe upon the air An odour strengthening, which had not been Except the sea waves shone and glittered there.

No unbrined waters roll these hills between, For, by their constant forth and backward motion, They tell their kins.h.i.+p to the mighty ocean.

Roll, roll, great Pacific, roll!

Ten thousands of years with their joys and their fears, Thy billows cannot control.

Still roll, Pacific, roll!

Toss, toss, great Pacific, toss!

For the hunter of seal, whose woe is thy weal, And whose gain is thine only loss.

Still toss, Pacific, toss!

Foam, foam, great Pacific, foam!

On thy rock-bound coast the wild Indians boast Thy mountains, not thee, their home.

Still foam, Pacific, foam!

Surge, surge, great Pacific, surge!

Though the mariners hear, with prophetical fear, In thy surging their deathly dirge.

Still, surge, Pacific, surge!

Roar, roar, great Pacific, roar!

For the gold-hunter's breast is in wilder unrest Than the billows that lash thy sh.o.r.e.

Still roar, Pacific, roar!

Moan, moan, great Pacific, moan!

For the Inca of old, with his treasures untold, From Peruvian sh.o.r.es is gone.

Still moan, Pacific, moan!

Wave, wave, mild Pacific, wave!

On the light, sandy bar of thine islands afar, In banana-tree grove is the old tale of love Still told by the dusky brave.

Wave gently, Pacific, wave!

XLVIII.

I know not what it was that bade me seek A letter from my Love. She promised not To write to me, nor did I ever speak Of that sad sorrow which would be my lot In wandering alone and friendless here, And hearing nought from her so fondly dear.

XLIX.

But some small quiet voice, scarce listened to, Enforced by its importunate command This tardy recognition, sooner due; And having sought a letter, now I stand And hold in trembling hand the paper she Has held, and written on so daintily.

L.

To read her words beneath the public eye Were desecration. I must seek a spot Where I alone can commune quietly With her, and where the vulgar gaze is not.

Then let me seek the free and open air, And read my loved one's words of greeting there.

LI.

What writes my Love? Ah Love! thou hast been ill.

Dread fever laid thee low when I had gone, And I was not beside thee--by his will Except for whom thou now had'st been my own.

And, though he be thy father, may my curse Rest on him; and I would I could do worse.

LII.

He, for his selfish pride to cause thee pain; He, for his littleness of mind to lay Thee low in sickness; G.o.d grant he may gain His due reward. And may the Lord repay The haughty baronet, in full degree, For all the wrong that he has rendered thee!

LIII.

But now thou art recovered, now thy heart Alone is sick. Ah Love! thou mournest too, No less than I, that we must live apart.

'Tis selfish, yet I thus would have thee do; I would not have thee happy while away From me, sweetheart, thy love would else decay.

LIV.

And did'st thou think thy father would relent Because thine illness threatened thee? Ah! no, His stubborn pride would still remain unbent Though thou at Death's dark portal layedst low.

His pride is greater than his love for thee, And greater even than his hate for me.

LV.

We may not be united, loved one--Nay, What writest thou? Ah Love! Love! is it true?

It cannot be that thou art mine to-day, And wast before, the while I never knew.

Oh G.o.d! my G.o.d hear Thou thy servant's cry, And let his thankful praise ascend on high.