William Cranston Lawton (1853–1941)

THIS glimpse have we, no more. Did parents fond,

Brothers, and kinsmen, hail his late return?

Or did he, doubly exiled, only yearn

To greet the Euxine’s waves at Trebizond,

The blue Ægean, and Pallas’ towers beyond?

Mute is the record: we shall never learn.

But when once more the well-worn page I turn,

Forever by reluctant schoolboys conned,

A parable the tale to me appears,

Of blacker waters in a drearier vale.

Ah me! when on that brink we exiles stand,

As earthly lights and mortal accents fail,

Shall voices long-forgotten reach our ears

To tell us we have found our fatherland?