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He stood alone—beneath the deep, dark shade Of a Canadian forest, where the trees, A century old the youngest of them, made Hollow and mournful music in the breeze; The pale moon shone upon a little nook Long toil had cleared, where grew the grass and corn, But thin and poor, and wearing not the look Of ruddy health, of hope and labour born.

He wore the skins of wolves his shot had killed— Tens of the thousands that, by night and day, Devoured his kine, and trampled where be tilled, Till fear and want had worn his strength away. Even the low hut—poor shelter!—while he slept, Shook in the earthquake, or the storm, or rain; Thus—sick at heart—the exile stood and wept, O'er thought, and care, and hope, and toil, in vain.

Where were his fellows?—why stood he alone?— None communed with him in that twilight dim; Famine had made them selfish, or had thrown The withering curse upon them as on him. Why marvel if his sad soul Eastward ream, While memories of the past around him throng, And, as his aching heart goes yearning home, He breathe again his saddened thoughts in song!

Again thy beauty brightens o'er The earth beneath, the skies above; Fair Moon, I welcome thee once more, And still thy pensive hour I love. And still to thine ethereal throne I turn, my wonted vows to pay— To gaze on thee alone—alone— My home! my friends!—where now are they?

Perchance, they too may gaze, and feel The sacred influence of thy power, Through evening's sober silence, steal O'er them—and bless the shadowy hour. Pass on, pass on, thou cloudless Moon— The world's untarnished diadem; Thy blessed light will leave me soon, But leave me to be nearer them!

Even now thy gentle rays may gleam On those I love, for whom I sigh; And they may hail thy tranquil beam, Lone maiden of the cloudless sky! Remembering, as thou glidest on To visit brighter worlds than ours, Thy smiles, in other times, have shone O'er happier scenes, in happier hours.

Outcast and hopeless, here I dwell; A dreary desert where I roam; No blessed one to love me well, And wait and watch my coming home; No long-loved voice to join my prayer; No rill to sing beside my door; No sweet 'good night,' to banish care; No sabbath-hymn, when toil is o'er.

My far-off friends!—whose memories fill My throbbing bosom—do they speak Of him, whose heart is with them still, Though joy hath ceased to light his cheek? If fancy now no longer gives Her foolish dreams of future bliss, There is a hope on which he lives— 'Tis of a happier world than this.

Thou, Moon, that walk'st the silent night, Alone in thy own realm, the sky; Calling the distant clouds to light And gladness as they draw more nigh; Wilt emblem to my friends and me That home where never comes regret— Where, from the chain of darkness free, Unmingled joy may wait us yet.

Friend of the lonely! if this lay Be sad—say, how shall I rejoice? How can my wearied soul be gay, When Nature's deep and solemn voice— Heard, by unnumbered echoes borne, Above, below—in heaven and earth— Tells me that man was made to mourn The hour that gave him woe—and birth!

He stood alone upon the vessel's prow, That swept aside the billows, and passed on; A night of storm and darkness o'er—and now The sun awoke, scattered the clouds, and shone. Was it an aged man who stood alone?— White hair, and wrinkled brow, and bending frame, Are signs that age, but only age, may own; Few years have vanished since—yet 'tis the same!