Paced the cloisters, knelt to pray, Found other chimes, Nearer to the earth than they. Gone are all the barons bold, Gone are all the knights and squires, Gone the abbot stern and cold, And the brotherhood of friars; Not a name Remains to fame, From those mouldering days of old! But the poet's memory here Of the landscape makes a part; Like the river, swift and clear, Flows his song through many a heart; Haunting still That ancient mill, In the Valley of the Vire. VICTOR GALBRAITH. UNDER the walls of Monterey In the mist of the morning damp and gray, These were the words they seemed to say: "Come forth to thy death, Victor Galbraith!" Forth he came, with a martial tread; He who so well the bugle played, Could not mistake the words it said: "Come forth to thy death, Victor Galbraith!" He looked at the earth, he looked at the sky, Victor Galbraith! And he said, with a steady voice and eye, "Take good aim; I am ready to die!' Thus challenges death Victor Galbraith. Twelve fiery tongues flashed straight and red, Victor Galbraith Falls to the ground, but he is not dead; Victor Galbraith. Three balls are in his breast and brain, Victor Galbraith! The water he drinks has a bloody stain; Victor Galbraith. Forth dart once more those tongues of flame, His soul has gone back to whence it came, "Victor Galbraith!" Under the walls of Monterey Through the mist of the valley damp and gray The sentinels hear the sound, and say, "That is the wraith Of Victor Galbraith!" MY LOST YOUTH. OFTEN I think of the beautiful town The pleasant streets of that dear old town, And the thoughts of youth are long, long thoughts." I can see the shadowy lines of its trees, And the burden of that old song, And the thoughts of youth are long, long thoughts." I remember the black wharves and the slips, And Spanish sailors with bearded lips, And the magic of the sea. And the voice of that wayward song "A boy's will is the wind's will, And the thoughts of youth are long, long thoughts." I remember the bulwarks by the shore, The sun-rise gun, with its hollow roar, And the music of that old song "A boy's will is the wind's will, And the thoughts of youth are long, long thoughts." I remember the sea-fight far away, In their graves, o'erlooking the tranquil bay, And the sound of that mournful song Goes through me with a thrill : "A boy's will is the wind's will, And the thoughts of youth are long, long thoughts." I can see the breezy dome of groves, And the friendships old and the early loves And the verse of that sweet old song, It flutters and murmurs still : "A boy's will is the wind's will, And the thoughts of youth are long, long thoughts." I remember the gleams and glooms that dart The song and the silence in the heart, And the voice of that fitful song Sings on, and is never still: "A boy's will is the wind's will, And the thoughts of youth are long, long thoughts." There are things of which I may not speak; There are thoughts that make the strong heart weak, And bring a pallor into the cheek, And a mist before the eye. And the words of that fatal song "A boy's will is the wind's will, And the thoughts of youth are long, long thoughts." Strange to me now are the forms I meet When I visit the dear old town; But the native air is pure and sweet, And the trees that o'ershadow each well-known street, As they balance up and down, Are singing the beautiful song, Are sighing and whispering still : "A boy's will is the wind's will, And the thoughts of youth are long, long thoughts." And Deering's Woods are fresh and fair, And among the dreams of the days that were, And the strange and beautiful song, The groves are repeating it still : "A boy's will is the wind's will, And the thoughts of youth are long, long thoughts." THE ROPEWALK. IN that building, long and low, Like the port-holes of a hulk, |