Careless, humble, and unknown, 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; Of this green earth Laughed and revelled in his line. 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, Songs that lowlier hearts could feel. In the convent, clad in gray, VICTOR GALBRAITH. 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, Remains to fame, From those mouldering days of old! But the poet's memory here Of the landscape makes a part; 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, Forth he came, with a martial tread ; He who so well the bugle played, 379 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, Six leaden balls on their errand sped; 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 381 MY LOST YOUTH. Through the mist of the valley damp and gray The sentinels hear the sound, and say, OFTEN I think of the beautiful town The pleasant streets of that dear old town, Is haunting my memory still: "A boy's will is the wind's will, 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 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 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." |