Closed are the portals of their Synagogue, In the grand dialect the Prophets spake. Gone are the living, but the dead remain, And not neglected; for a hand unseen, Scattering its bounty, like a summer rain, Still keeps their graves and their remembrance green. How came they here? What burst of Christian hate, Drove o'er the sea-that desert desolate- They lived in narrow streets and lanes obscure, All their lives long, with the unleavened bread And slaked its thirst with marah of their tears. Anathema maranatha! was the cry That rang from town to town, from street to street; At every gate the accursed Mordecai Was mocked and jeered, and spurned by Christian feet. Pride and humiliation hand in hand Walked with them through the world where'er they went; Trampled and beaten were they as the sand, For in the background figures vague and vast The mystic volume of the world they read, But ah! what once has been shall be no more! OLIVER BASSELIN, IN the Valley of the Vire Still is seen an ancient mill, These words alone: "Oliver Basselin lived here." Far above it, on the steep, Ruined stands the old Château ; Nothing but the donjon-keep Left for shelter or for show. Its vacant eyes Stare at the skies, Stare at the valley green and deep. Once a convent, old and brown, Whose sunny gleam Cheers the little Norman town. In that darksome mill of stone, That ancient mill With a splendor of its own. Never feeling of unrest Broke the pleasant dream he dreamed; Only made to be his nest, All the lovely valley seemed; No desire Of soaring higher Stirred or fluttered in his breast. True, his songs were not divine; Were not songs of that high art,...) Which, as winds do in the pine,) Find an answer in each heart; -{ But the mirth Of this green earth From the alehouse and the inn, That in those days Sang the poet Basselin. In the castle, cased in steel, Knights, who fought at Agincourt, Another clang, MOT317 Songs that lowlier hearts could feel. In the convent, clad in gray, rawn? And the poet heard their bells; al 75 Found other chimes, Nearer to the earth than they. H Gone are all the barons bold, Gone are all the knights and squires, And the brotherhood of friars; Remains to fame, From those mouldering days of old! But the poet's memory here Of the landscape makes a part;. Flows his song through many a heart; That ancient mill, In the Valley of the Vire. VICTOR GALBRAITH. UNDER the walls of Monterey At daybreak the bugles began to play, In the mist of the morning damp and gray, These were the words they seemed to say: "Come forth to thy death, Victor Galbraith!" H |