A Canadian Epic, XLVIII–LXV

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.

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.

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.

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.

He, for his selfish pride to cause thee pain; He, for his littleness of mind to lay Thee low in sickness; God 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!

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.

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.

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 God! my God hear Thou thy servant's cry, And let his thankful praise ascend on high.

Mine eyes are dim—Nay, tears? It cannot be; I am a man, and am not wont to weep. Yet beats my happy heart so joyfully The quick revulsion causes me to steep Mine eyes in tears. Though Grief could not compel These tears to flow, Joy bade them, and they fell.

Nay, cease to flow, ye tears, for I must read Those words again so full of promised joy. So quickly read I, and such little heed I paid to little words which might alloy, Perchance, the whole, that I must read anew, Those words, and know my rendering is true.

"The latest book you wrote has pleaséd well The populace, and men of high renown Upon its certain power for good all dwell; And this has been so pleasing to the Crown That, recognizing your unquestioned right, The Queen has now created you a knight.

"This pleases me, my dearest one, but, oh! What follows gives me higher pleasure far I quick resolved to let my father know That you were now a knight, and, in a prayer, With tearful eyes, I begged him to allow My loved one to return and claim me now.

"When first I spoke he heeded not, but soon His face relaxed, and then, 'The boy has won,' He said, 'a worthy name. Then take thy boon, And tell him I will call him now my son.' Then, kissing me, he raised me from my knee, And, smiling, bade me write in haste to thee."

And thou art mine, my love—my very own! And none can sever us. I seem not yet To realize that all my pain is gone. 'Tis hard such heavy sorrow to forget. Ah, Love! what now can give us grief or pain? And who shall part us when we meet again?

I do not love the title, and would choose To bear it not; but this may never be. The baronet would doubtless then refuse To let his daughter be a wife to me, And loud invectives on my head would pour. He loves her, but he loves a title more.

But 'tis not mine to judge the baronet, E'en though he shaded all my brighter life; My duty bids me all the past forget, For he has given me a loving wife. So be it mine all passions to control, And speed me home to greet my soul's twin-soul.

Then, farewell, Canada! If I have been O'erladen with a heavy-burdened heart, While all thy many beauties I have seen; And if my sorrow should a vein impart Of sadness to my thoughts, or bitterness, Oh, think not this can make me love thee less.

Farewell, great Canada! And oh! forgive An exiled Englishman if he esteem His native country highest, and would live By choice in England. Do not let it seem That on thy charms he sets but little store; He loves thee well, but must love England more.

As boldly on high ye rise to the sky, Great mountains, my message convey, And tell to the Heaven the joy that is given To me and to mine to-day.

Ye tall, waving trees, tell ye to the breeze, And bid it to bear away Afar on its wing, the words that I bring: "My love is my own to-day."

And you, little bird, your voice must be heard; Hum out to the flow'rs my lay. As o'er them you hover, oh! say that I love her, And say she is mine to-day.

And, oh! pretty flowers, put forth all your powers, And tell to the bees that stray Your blossoms among, the words of my song: Oh! tell of my joy to-day.

And ye, busy bees, give heed to my pleas, My loving request obey; As ye fly to and fro, let your fellows all know The joy that is mine to-day.

Let Nature all see my joy, and for me Her many-tongued pow'rs array, And bid them rejoice, and sing with one voice, Because of my joy to-day.