THE EXILE

WE told her that her far off shore was bleak and dour to view,

And that her sky was dull and mirk while ours was smiling blue.

She only sighed in answer, “It is even as ye say,

But oh, the ragged splendor when the sun bursts through the gray!”

We brought her dew-wet roses from our fairest sum- mer bowers,

We bade her drink their fragrance, we heaped her lap with flowers;

She only said, with eyes that yearned, “Oh, if ye might have brought

The pale, unscented blossoms by my father’s lowly cot!”

We bade her listen to the birds that sang so madly

sweet, The lyric of the laughing stream that dimpled at our

feet; “But, 0,” she cried, “I weary for the music wild that

stirs When keens the mournful western wind among my na— tive firs !”

11)