OLIVER BASSELIN.* IN the Valley of the Vire Still is seen an ancient mill, With its gables quaint and queer, And beneath the window-sill, On the stone, These words alone: Far above it, on the steep, Stare at the skies, Stare at the valley green and deep. Once a convent, old and brown, Looked, but ah! it looks no more, Whose sunny gleam Songs that fill That ancient mill Only made to be his nest, All the lovely valley seemed; No desire Of soaring higher Stirred or fluttered in his breast. Find an answer in each heart: Of this green earth * Oliver Basselin, the "Père joyeux du Vaudeville," flourished in the fifteenth century, and gave to his convivial songs the name of his native valleys, in which he sang them, Vauxde-Vire. This name was afterwards corrupted into the modern Vaudeville. From the alehouse and the inn, In the castle, cased in steel, Songs that lowlier hearts could feel. Sat the monks in lonely cells, 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. THE DISCOVERER OF THE A LEAF FROM KING ALFRED'S OTHERE, the old sea-captain, To King Alfred, the Lover of Truth, His figure was tall and stately, Like a boy's his eye appeared; Hearty and hale was Othere, His cheek had the colour of oak; With a kind of laugh in his speech, Like the sea-tide on a beach, As unto the King he spoke. And wrote down the wondrous tale "So far I live to the northward, To the east are wild mountain-chains, you "I own six hundred reindeer, For thinking of those seas. sail. "To the northward stretched the desert, As far as the whale-ships go. But I did not slacken sail "The days grew longer and longer, Of the red midnight sun. "And then uprose before me, Upon the water's edge, The huge and haggard shape Of that unknown North Cape, Whose form is like a wedge. "The sea was rough and stormy, The tempest howled and wailed, "Four days I steered to eastward, Here Alfred, King of the Saxons, He neither paused nor stirred, And wrote down every word. "And now the land," said Othere, "Bent southward suddenly, And I followed the curving shore, And ever southward bore Into a nameless sea. "And there we hunted the walrus, The narwhale, and the seal; Ha! 'twas a noble game! And like the lightning's flame Flew our harpoons of steel. "There were six of us altogether, Norsemen of Helgoland; In two days and no more And Othere, the old sea-captain, And to the King of the Saxons, In witness of the truth, Raising his noble head, He stretched his brown hand, and said, "Behold this walrus-tooth!" VICTOR GALBRAITH.* UNDER the walls of Monterey At daybreak the bugles began to play, Victor Galbraith! In the mist of the morning damp and gray, These were the words they seemed to say, "Come forth to thy death, Forth he came, with a martial tread; He who so well the bugle played, He looked at the earth, he looked at the sky, He looked at the files of musketry, 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; His name was not stamped on those balls of lead, And they only scath * This poem is founded on fact. Victor Galbraith was a bugler in a company of volunteer cavalry, and was shot in Mexico for some breach of discipline. It is a common superstition among soldiers that no balls will kill them unless their names are written on them. The old proverb says, "Every bullet has its billet." COME to me, CHILDREN. children! For I hear you at your play, Ye open the eastern windows, In your thoughts the brooklet's flow; With light and air for food, Through them it feels the glow MY LOST YOUTH. OFTEN I think of the beautiful town And my youth cames back to me. And a verse of a Lapland song Is haunting my memory still: 66 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, It murmurs and whispers still: A boy's will is the wind's will, And the thoughts of youth are long, long thoughts." I remember the black wharves and the slips, And the sea-tides tossing free; And Spanish sailors with bearded lips, And the beauty and mystery of the ships, And the magic of the sea. And the voice of that wayward song Is singing and saying still: "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 sunrise gun, with its hollow roar, The drum-beat repeated o'er and o'er, And the bugle wild and shrill. And the music of that old song Throbs in my memory still: "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, Where they in battle died. 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, The shadows of Deering's Woods: And the friendships old and the early loves Come back with a sabbath sound, as of doves In quiet neighbourhoods. 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 Across the schoolboy's brain; The song and the silence in the heart, That in part are prophecies, and in part Are longings wild and vain. 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 dreams that cannot die! There are thoughts that make the strong heart weak, * This was the engagement between the Enterprise and Boxer, off the harbour of Portland, in which both captains were slain. They were buried side by side, in the cemetery on Mountjoy. And bring a pallor into the cheek, 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 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, 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 youth are long, long thoughts." SANTA FILOMENA.* * "At Pisa the church of San Francisco contains a chapel dedicated lately to Santa Filomena; over the altar is a picture, by Sabatelli, representing the Saint as a beautiful, nymphlike figure, floating down from heaven, attended by two angels, bearing the lily, palm, and javelin, and beneath, in the foreground, the sick and maimed, who are healed by her intercession,"MRS. JAMESON, Sacred and Legendary Art, II. 298. Honour to those whose words or deed, Thus help us in our daily needs, And by their overflow Raise us from what is low! Thus thought I, as by night I read Of the great army of the dead, The trenches cold and damp, The starved and frozen camp,The wounded from the battle-plain, In dreary hospitals of pain, The cheerless corridors, Pass through the glimmering And flit from room to room. Upon the darkening walls. The light shone and was spent. Nor even shall be wanting here SANDALPHON. HAVE you read in the Talmud of old, In the Legends the Rabbins have told Of the limitless realms of the air,Have you read it,-the marvellous story Of Sandalphon, the Angel of Glory, Sandalphon, the Angel of Prayer? How, erect, at the outermost gates Of the City Celestial he waits, With his feet on the ladder of light, That, crowded with angels unnumbered, By Jacob was seen, as he slumbered Alone in the desert at night? |