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; For in the background figures vague and vast And thus for ever with reverted look The mystic volume of the world they read, But ah! what once has been shall be no more! OLIVER BASSELIN.78 IN the Valley of the Vire These words alone: "Oliver Basselin lived here." Far above it, on the steep, Ruined stands the old Château; Nothing but the donjon-keep 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 splendour 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; 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, Songs that lowlier hearts could feel. In the convent, clad in gray, Found other chimes, Nearer to the earth than they. Gone are all the barons bold, Gone are all the knights and squires, Remains to fame, From those mouldering days of old! Of the landscape makes a part; Flows his song through many a heart That ancient mill, In the Valley of the Vire. VICTOR GALBRAITH.79 UNDER the walls of Monterey At daybreak the bugles began to play, In the mist of the morning damp and gray, Victor Galbraith!" Forth he came, with a martial tread; He who so well the bugle played, 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 In his agony prayeth Forth dart once more those tongues of flame, His soul has gone back to whence it came, When the Sergeant saith, Under the wall of Monterey By night a bugle is heard to play Through the mist of the valley damp and gray "That is the wraith MY LOST YOUTH. OFTEN I think of the beautiful town Often in thought go up and down The pleasant streets of that dear old town, And the thoughts of youth are long, long thoughts." And catch, in sudden gleams, The sheen of the far-surrounding seas, And the burden of that old song, It murmurs and listens still : "A boy's will is the wind's will, And the thoughts of youth are long, long thoughts." And Spanish sailors with bearded lips, 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, And the fort upon the hill; The sun-rise gun, with its hollow roar, And the bugle wild and shrill. "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, 80 In their graves, o'erlooking the tranquil bay, And the sound of that mournful song "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." 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 a mist before the eye. 66 And the words of that fatal song Come over me like a chill: 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." |