PROLOGUE. 
 
THE EXILE. 
 
“ The Sun, surmounted by a red rose, shining on a mossy bank.” 
 
 
VER the western water lies a solar fire, 
  Rapt lives and drunken ecstasies of sad desire ; 
Poppies and lonely flag-flowers haunt the desolate 
Marsh-strand :  the herons gaunt still contemplate 
What was delight, is ruin, may breed love again, 
Even as darkness breeds the day :  when life is slain. 
 
*        *        *        *        *        *        * 
 
O who will hear my chant, my cry ;  my voice who hear, 
Even in this weary misery, this danker mere, 
Me, in mine exile, who am driven from yonder mountains 
Blue-gray, and highland airs of heaven, and moving fountains ? 
Me, who shall hear me ?  Am I lost, a broken vessel, 
Caught in the storm of lies and tossed, forbid to wrestle ? 
Shall not the sun rise lively yet, the rose yet bloom, 
The crown yet lift me, life beget flowers on the tomb ? 
I was born fighter.  Think you then my task is done, 
O 
 
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