The Exiles

Far north, upon uncharted waves

Where lands unpeopled lie,

And freezing winds chill sunlight’s rays

And blizzards fill the skies;


There, o’er the treacherous fields of ice,

March desperate in the snow

A host, unceasing day or night,

To eastward slowly go.


Against a foe most foul they swore,

Who stole a birthright fair,

That though this evil shame they bore,

Yet great would be their heirs.


Upon the grinding ice they press

And struggle on, though long

And perilous the path lies; yes,

And weak does grow the strong.


The lays and lore tell of the line

That braved the northern lands;

Through cent’ries long, their heirs did rise,

And legends from their hands.

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