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Gone are all the barons bold,
Gone are all the knights and squires,
Not a name
Remains to fame,
Of the landscape makes a part;
“ Come forth to thy death,
“Come forth to thy death,
Victor Galbraith !"
Thus challenges death
And they only scathe
In his agony prayeth
When the Sergeant saith,
“ Victor Galbraith!” Under the wall of Monterey By night a bugle is heard to play
" That is the wraith
MY LOST YOUTH.
That is seated by the sea;
And a verse of a Lapland song
Is haunting my memory still :
And catch, in sudden gleams,
It murmurs and listens still :
And the sea-tides tossing free;
And the voice of that wayward song
Is singing and saying still :
And the fort upon the hill ;
And the bugle wild and shrill.
And the music of that old song
Throbs in memory still:
How it thundered o'er the tide!
And the sound of that mournful song
Goes through me with a thrill:
The shadows of Deering's Woods;
And the verse of that sweet old song,
It flutters and murmurs still :
Across the schoolboy's brain;
And the voice of that fitful song
A boy's will is the wind's will,
There are dreams that cannot die; 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
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 thato'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 with joy that is almost pain, My heart goes back to wander there,
the dreams of the days that were I find my lost youth again.
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 a youth are long, long thoughts."
In that building, long and low,
Like the port-holes of a hulk,
Drooping, each a hempen bulk,
Light the long and dusky lane;
All its spokes are in my brain.
Gleam the long threads in the sun; While within this brain of mine Cobwebs 'brighter and more fine
By the busy wheel are spun. Two fair maidens in a swing, Like white doves upon the wing,
First before my vision pass ; Laughing, as their gentle hands Closely clasp the twisted strands,
At their shadow on the grass. Then a booth of mountebanks, With its smell of tan and planks,
And a girl poised high in air On a cord, in spangled dress. :With a faded loveliness,
And a weary look of care.
Drawing water from a well ;
As at some magician's spell.
Then an old man in a tower,
While the rope coils round and round
Nearly lifts him from the ground.
Laughter and indecent mirth;
Blow, and sweep it from the earth!
And an eager, upward look ;
And an angler by a brook.
Anchors dragged through faithless sand ;
Sailors feeling for the land,
In that building long and low;
All the spinners backward go.
THE GOLDEN MILESTONE LEAFLESS are the trees; their purple branches Spread themselves abroad, like reefs of coral,
Social watch-fires Answering one another through the darkness. On the hearth the lighted logs are glowing, And like Ariel in the cloven pive-tree,
For its freedom Groans and sighs the air imprisoned in them.