The  Story  of  an  Exile  109

There  my  experience  began,
Along  the  lines  of  primal  man;
My  fare,  as  I  remember  well,
Was  strictly  aboriginal,
For  stupid  grouse  and  ptarmigan
Were  easily  approached  and  slain;
And,  as  a  relish  for  such  food,
I  had  the  berries  of  the  wood.
Through  arches  of  umbrageous  shade
I  journeyed  onward  undismayed,
And  undisturbed  by  man  or  beast,
Made  daily  progress  toward  the  east,
Till  viewing  the  Pacific  shore,
Northward  along  the  coast  I  bore.
I  kept  that  course  for  many  days,
Where  none  but  savage  eyes  might  gaze ;
Full  many  a  mile  my  footsteps  led
Through  regions  uninhabited,
Till  where  Kamschatka's  barren  rocks
Resist  the  sea's  aggressive  shocks,
One  gloomy  afternoon,  I  stood
And  watched  the  wide  and  trackless  flood.
'Twould  make  a  tedious  tale,  I  fear,
Not  meet  for  recitation  here,
Should  I  endeavor  to  relate
The  details  of  a  hermit's  fate.
To  all  appearance  I  was  free;
A  plethora  of  liberty


110  The  Passing  of  the  Storm

Is  little  consolation,  where

One  lonely  recluse  breathes  the  air;

For  solitary  mortals  find

But  little  joy  and  peace  of  mind;

When  freedom  is  enjoyed  alone,

Its  fondest  attributes  are  flown;

Men  of  companions  destitute

Sink  to  the  level  of  the  brute;

Their  sacred  essence  seems  to  be

Dependent  on  community.
Each  morning,  in  the  reddening  skies,
Alone,  I  watched  the  sun  god  rise,
While  every  evening  in  the  west,
Alone,  I  watched  him  sink  to  rest.
To  catch  a  passing  ship,  in  vain
I  hourly  scanned  the  watery  plain,
Till  one  fair  morn  a  distant  sail
Brought  the  conclusion  of  my  tale.
