LVI.
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.
LVII.
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.
LVIII.
"The latest book you wrote has pleased 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.
LIX.
"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.
LX.
"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."
LXI.
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?
LXII.
I do not love the t.i.tle, 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 t.i.tle more.
LXIII.
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 pa.s.sions to control, And speed me home to greet my soul"s twin-soul.
LXIV.
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.
LXV.
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.
THE END.
FOOTNOTES:
[Footnote A: The war of 1812-14.]
[Footnote B: The facts related in the following verses relative to the siege of Quebec and the death of Wolfe have been taken from Dr.
Withrow"s "History of Canada," and I take this opportunity of acknowledging my indebtedness to the author. The history has been invaluable to me in the composition of this poem. Without its help the "Song" would have been far more incomplete than it now is.--_W. S. S._]
[Footnote C: "Pale and weak with recent illness, Wolfe reclined among his officers, and, in a low tone, blending with the rippling of the river, recited several stanzas of the recent poem, Gray"s "Elegy Written in a Country Churchyard." Perhaps the shadow of his approaching fate stole upon his mind, as in mournful cadence he whispered the strangely pathetic words:
"The boast of heraldry, the pomp of power, And all that beauty, all that wealth ere gave, Alike await the inexorable hour, The paths of glory lead but to the grave."
"With a prescience of the hollowness of military renown, he exclaimed, "I would rather have written those lines than take Quebec to-morrow.""--_Withrow"s History of Canada, p. 246_.]
[Footnote D:
Yet in spite of thy queenly disdain, Thou art seared by my pa.s.sion and pain; Thou shall hear me repeat till I die for it, Sweet, "I love thee! I dare to love _thee_."
--_Marie Corelli, "The Romance of Two Worlds."_]