The Exile


"Forsaken!" he cried and gave his war-horse rein,
Bright-bannered helm gleamed like his burning will.
The company of oath swept faithful in his train,
Sun-glinted spears in muster o'er the plain;
They loved him still.

"Forsaken!" he cried, then swift he turned away,
With white-hot wrath to set the hills aflame.
A hundred hooves and more sped fierce upon their way
To pound a thunder-music unto the quiet day
That naught could tame.

"Forsaken!" he cried, like lightning on far sands
That sears its tell-tale rune in smold'ring glass.
"Forsaken!" he cried, "Forsaken all these lands!"
But Hope stood portent, heart and sword and hands,
Sprung from the grass.


C. Baillie / '03