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Trne, his songs were not divine;

Were; not songs of that high art,
Which as winds do in the pine,
rind an auswer in each heart;
Bnt the mirth
Of tius green earth
Laughed and revelled in his line

From the alehonse and the iun.

Opening on the narrow street.
Came the lond, convivial din.
Singing and applause of feet,
The laughing lays
That in those days
Sang the poet Basselin.

In the castle, cased in steel,

Knights, who fonght in Aginconrt,
Watched and waited spur on heel;
IInt the poet sang for sport
Songs that rang
Another clang.
Songs that lowlier hearts conld feel.

In the convent, clad in gray,

•Sat the monks in lonely cells.

Paced the cloisters, knelt to pray,

And the poet heard their bells;

Bnt his rhymes

Fonnd other chymes,

Nearer to the earth than they.

Gone are all the barous bold-
Gone are all the knights and squires,
Gone the abbot stern and cold,
And the brotherhood of friars;
Not a name
Remaius to fame.
From those monldering days of old!

Bnt the poet's memory here

Of the landscape makes a part; Like the river, swift and clear, Flows his song throngh many a heart; Haunting still That ancient mItl. In the valley of the Vire.

VICTOR GALBRAITH.

Undee the walls of Monterey

At daybreak the bugles began to play,

Vietor Gaibraith!
In the mist of the morning damp and gray.
These were the words they seemed to say:

"Come forth to thy death,

Vietor Gaibraith!"

Forth he came, with a martini tread;
Flrm was his step, ereet his head;

Vietor Gaibraith,
He whp so well the bugle played.
Conld not mistake the words it said:

"Come forth to thy death,

Vietor Gaibraith !'r

lie looked at the earth, he looked at the sky, lie looked at the files of umsketry,

Vietor Gaibraith! And he said, with a steady voice and eye, "Take good aim; I am ready to die!"

Thus challenges dentn

Vietor Gaibraith.

Twelve fiery tongnes flashed straight and red, Six laden balls on their errand sped;

Vietor Gaibraith Falls to the gronnd, bnt he is not dead; His name was not stamped on those balls . lead.

And thev ouly scathe

Vietor Gaibraith.

Three balls are in bis breast and brain,
Bnt he rises ont of the dust again,
Vietor GaibraHh!

The water he drinks has a bloody stafn,
'' O kill me. and pnt me ont of my pain!"

In his agony prayeth

Vietor Gaibraith.

Forth dart once more those tongnes of flame,
And the bugler hath died the death of shame,

Vietor Gaibraith!
His sonl has gone back to whence it came.
And no one auswers to the name,

When the Sergeant saith

"Vietor Gaibraith!"

Under the wall of Monterey
By night a bugle is heard to play

Vietor Gaibraith!
Throngh the mist of the valley damp and gray
The sentinels hear the sonnd, and say,

"That is the wraith

Of Vietor Gaibraith!"

MY LOST YOUTH.

Often I think of the beantiful town

That is seated by the sea! Often in thonght go up and down The pleasant streets of that clear old town, And my yonth comes back to inc. And a verse of a Lapland song Is haunting my memory still: "A boy's will is the wind's will, And the thonghts of yonth are long, long thongths."

I can see the shadowy lines of its trees,

And catch, in sndden gleams. The sheen of the far-surronnding seas. And islands that were the Hesperides Of all my boyish dreams. And the burden of that old song It umrumrs and listeus still: "A boy's will is the wind's will, And the thonghts of yonth are long, long thonghts."

1 remember the black wharves and the slips,

And the sea-tides tossing free; And Spanish sailors with bearded lips. And the beanty 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 thonghts of yonth are long, long thonghts.

I remember the bulwarks by the shore.

And the fort upon the hill; The sun-rise gun. with its hollow roar, The drum-beat repeated o'er and o'er, And the bugle wild and shrill. And the umsic of that old song Throbs in the memory still . "A boy's will is the wind's will. And the thonghts of yonth are long, long thonghts."

I remember the sea-fight far away,

How it thundered o'er the tide! And the dead captaius, as thev lav In their graves, o'erlooking the tranquil bay, Where they in battle died. And the sound of that monrnful song Goes throngh me with a thrill: "A boy's willis the wind's will, And the thonghts of yonth are long, long thonghts."

I can see the breezy dome of groves,

The shadows of Ueering's Woods;
And the friendships old mid the early loves
Come back with a Sabbath sonnd, us of doves

In quiet neighbonrhoods.
And the verse of that sweet old song

It flntters and umrumrs still: "A boy's will is the wind's will, And the thonghts of yonth are long, long tho ughts."

I remember the gleams and glooms that dart

Across the schooiboy'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 winds will. And the thonghts of yonth are long, long thonghts."

There are things of which I may not speak;

There are dreams that caunot die; There are thonghts that make the strong heart

weak, And bring a pallor into the check, And a mist before the eye. And the words of that fataI song Come over me like a chill: "A boy's will is the wind s will, And the thonghts of yonth are long, long thonghts."

Strange to me now are the forms I meet

When I visit the dear old town; Bnt 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 beantiful song. Are sighing and whispering still: "A boy's will is the wind's will. And the thonghts of yonth are long, long thonghts.'

And Deering's Woods are fresh and fair,

And with joy that is aimost pain, Mv heart goes back to wander their. And among the dreams of the days that were 1 find my lost yonth agiiin. And the strange and beantiful song. The groves are repeating it still. "A boy's will is the wisd's will, And the' thonghts of a yonth are long, long thonghts."

THE BOPEWALK.

Ix that building, long and low.
With its windows all a-row,

Like tho port-holes of a hulk,
Human spiders spin und spin,
Backward down their thread so thin

Drooping, each a hempen bulk.

At the end. an open door;
Squares of suushine on the floor

Light the long and dusty lane:
And the whirring of a wheel.
Dull and drowsy, makes me feel

All its spokes'are in my brain.

As the spiuners to the end
Downward go and re-ascend.
Gleam the long threads in the sWn;
• While within this brain of mine
Cobwebs brighter and more fine
By the busy wheel are spun.

Two fair maideus in a swing.
Like white doves upon the wing,

Flrst before my vision pass;
Laughing, as their gentle bands
Closely clasped the twisted strands,

At their shadow on the grass.

Then a booth of monntebanks
With its smell of tan and planks,

And a girl poised high in air
On a cord, in tpanrlcd dress.
With a faded loveliness.

And a weary look of care.

Then a homestead among farms,
And a woman with bare arms

Drawing water from a well;
As the bncket monnts apace.
With it mounts her own fair face,

As nt some magician's spell.

Then an old njan in a tower,
Ringing lond the noontide honr,

While the rope coils round and ronnd
Like a serpent at his feet,
And again, in swift retreat.

Nearly lifts him from the gronnd.

Then within a prison-yard,
Faces fixed, and stern, and hard,

Laughter and indecent mirth;
Ah! it is the gallows-tree;
Breath of Christian charity.

Blow, and sweep it from*the earth!

Then a schooiboy, with his kite
Gleaming in a sky of light.

And an eager, upward look;
Steeds pursned throngh lane and field;
Fowlers witli their suares concealed;

And an angler by a brook.

Ships rejoicing in the breeze.
Wrecks that float o'er unknown seas,

Anchors dragged throngh faithiess sand;
Sea-fog drifting overhead,
And, with lessening line aml lead,

Sailors feeling for the land

All these scenes do I behold.
These, and many left untold.

In that building long and low;
While the wheel goes ronnd and ronnd,
With a drowsy dreamy sound,

All the spiuners backward go.

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In his farthest wanderings still he sees it; Hears the talking flame, the auswering nightwind,

As he heard them
When he sat with those who were, bat are not.

Happy he who neither wealth nor fashion,
Nor the mareh of the encroaching city,

Drives an exile .
From the hearth of his ancestral homestead.

We may build more splendid habitatious,
Flll onr rooms with paintings and with sculp-
tures,

Bnt we caunot
Bay with gold the old associatious!

CATAWBA WINE.

This song of mine

Is a song of the Vine,
To be sung by the glowing embers

Of wayside inus,

When the rain begius
To darken the drear Novembers.

It is not a song

Of the Scuppernong,
From warm Carolinian valleys,

Nor the Isabel

And the umscadel
That bask !n onr garden alleys.

Nor the red Mustang,

Whose clusters hang
O'er the waves of the Colorado,

And the fiery flood

Of whose purple blood
Has a dash of Spanish bravado.

For richest and best

Is the wine of the West,
That grows by the Beantiful River;

Whose sweet perfume

Fllls nil the room
With a benison on the giver.

And as hollow trees

Are the haunts of bees, For ever going and coming .

So this crystal hive

Is all alive With a swarming and buzzing and humming.

Very good in its way

Is the Verzenav,
Or the Siller soft and creamy;

But Catawba wine

Has a taste more divine,
-More dulcet, delicions, and dreamy.

There grows no vino

By the haunted Rhine, By Danube or Guadalquivir,

Nor on highiand or cape,

That bears snch a grape.
As grows by the Beantiful River.

Drugged is their juice

For foreigu use,
When shipped o'er the reeling Atlantie,

To rack onr braius.

With the fever paius.
That have driven the Old World frantic.

To the sewers and sinks

With all snch drinks.
And after them tumble the mixer;

For a poison maligu,

Is snch Borgia wine,
Or at best bnt a Devil's Elixir.

While pure as a spring,

Is the wine I sing.
And to praise it, one needs bnt name it;

For Catawba wine

Has need of no sigu.
No tavern-bush to proclaim it.

And this Song of the Vine,

This greeting of mine. The winds and the birds shall deliver

To the Qneen of the West,

In her garlands dressed. On the banks of the Beantiful River.

SANA FILOMENA

Whene'ee a noble deed is wronght,
Whene'er is spoken a noble thonght,

Our hearts, in glad surprise,

To higher levels rise.

The tidal wave of deeper souls
Into onr iumost being rolls,

And lifts us unawares

Ont of all meaner cares.

Hononr to those whose words or deeds
Thus help us in onr dally needs,
And by their overflow
Raise us from what is low!

Thus thonght I, as by night I read
Of the great army of the dead,
The trenches cold and damp,
The starved and frozen camp,—

The wonnded from the battle-plain,
In dreary hospitals of pain,

The cheerless corridors.

The cold and stony floors.

Lo! in that honse of misery,

A lady with a lamp I see

Bass throngh the glimmering gloom,
And flit from room to room.

And slow as in a dream of bliss,
The speechiess sufferer turus to kiss
Her shadow, as it falls
Upon the darkening walls.

As if a door in heaven shonld be
Opened and then closed snddeuly.
The vision came and went,
The light shone and was spent.

On England's aunals throngh the long
Hereafter of her speech and song,

That light its rays shall cast

From portals of the past.

A Lady with a lamp shall stand
In the great history of the land,

A noble type of good,

Heroic womanhood.

Nor even shall be wanting here
The paim, the lily, and the spear,

The symbols that of yore

Saint Fllomena bore.

THE DISCOVERER OF THE NORTH CAPE.

A LEAF FROM KING ALFRED'S OROSIC3.

Otheee, the old sea captain,

Who dwelt in Helgoland,
To King Alfred, the Lover of Trnth
Bronght a suow-white wairus-tooth.

Which he held in his brown right hand.

His figure was tall and stately.

Like a boys his eye appeared;
His hair was yellow as hay,
Bnt threads of silvery gray

Gleamed in his tawny beard.

Hearty and hale was Othere,
His cheek had the colonr of oak;

With a kind of Laugh in his speech,

Like the sea-tide on a beach,
As unto the King he spoke.

And Alfred. King of the Saxous,

Had a book upon his knees,
And wrote down the wondrons tale
Of him who was first to sail

Into the Aretic seas.

"So far I live to the northward,

No man lives north of me;
To the east are wild monntain-chaius,
And beyond them meres and plaius:

To the westward all is sea.
'' So far I live to the northward,

From the harbour of Skeringes-hale, If yon oniy sailed by day, With a fair wind all the way.

More than a month yon wonld sail.

"I own six hundred reindeer.

With sheep and swine beside; I have tribnte from the Flnus, Whalebone and reindeer skius, And ropes of wairus-hide.

"I plonghed the land with horses, Bnt my heart was ill at ease,

For the old seafaring men

Came to me now and then,
With their sagas of the seas ;—

"Of Iceland and of Greeuland,

And the stormy Hebrides, And the undiscovered deep;— I conld not eat nor sleep

For thinking of those seas.

"To the northward stretched the desert,

How far I fain wonld know;
So at last I sallied forth.
And three days sailed dne north,

As fai- as the whale-ships go.

"To the west of rae was the ocean. To the right the desolate shore,

Bnt did not slacken sail

For the wairus or the whale,
Till after three days more.

"The days grew longer and longer,

Till they became as one,
And sonthward throngh the haze
I saw the sullen blaze

Of the red miduight sun.

"And then uprose before me,

Upon the water's edge.
The huge und haggard shape
Of that unknown North Cape,

Whose form is like a wedge.

"The sea was rongh and stormy.
The tempest howled and walled,

And the sea-fog, like a ghost,

Haunted that dreary coast,
Bnt onward still I sailed.

"Fonr days I steered to eastward,

tonr days withont a night; Bonnd in a flery ring Went the greafsun, O King,

With red and lurid llght.,F

Here Alfred, King of the Saxous,

Ceased writing for a while;
And raised his eyes from his book,
With a strange and puzzled look,

And an incredulons smile.

Bnt Othere, the old sea-captain,
He neither paused nor stirred,

Till the King listened, and then

Once more took up his pen,
And wrote down every word.

"And now the land," said Othere,

"Bent sonthward snddeuly, And I followed the curving shore, And ever sonthward bore

Into a nameless sea.

"And there We hunted the wairus,

The narwhalc and the seal;
Ha! 'twas a noble game!
And like the lightning's flame

Flew onr harpoous of steel.
"There were six of us all together

Norsemen of Helgoland;
In two days and no more
We killed of them three score,

And dragged them to the strand.

Here Alfred the Trnth-Teller

Snddeuly closed his book,
And lifted his blne eyes,
With donbt and strange surmise

Depieted in their look.

And Othere, the old sea-captain

Stared at him wild and weir'd,

Then smiled, till his shining teeth

Gleamed white from underneath

HIn tawny, quivering beard.

And to the King of the Saxous,

In witness of the trnth, Raising his noble head, He stretched his brown hand, und said,

"Behold this wairus-tooth!"

DAYBREAK.

A Wind came up ont of the sea,

And said, "O mists, make room for me."

It hailed the ships, and cried, "Sail on,
Ye mariners, the night is gone."

And hurried landward far away.
Crying, "Awake! it is the day."

It said unto the the forest, "Shont!
Hang all yonr leafy bauners ont!"

It tonched the wood-bird's folded wing,
And said, "O bird, awake and sing."

And o'er the farms, " O chanticleer,
Yonr clarion blow! the day is near."
It whispered to the fields of corn,
"Bow down, and hail the coming morn."

It shonted throngh the belfry-tower,
"Awake, O bell! proclaim the honr."

It crossed the chureh-yard with a sigh,
And said, "Not yet! in quiet lie."

THE FIFTIETH BIRTHDAY OF AGASSIZ.
May 2S, 1S57,

It was fifty years ago
In the pleasant month of May.

In the beautiful Pays de Vand,
A child in its cradle lay.

And Nature, the old nurse, took

The child upon her knee, Saying: "Here's a story-book

Thy Father has written for thee."

"Come wander with me," she said,

"Into regious yet untrod; And read what is still uuread

In the manuscripts of God."

And he wandered away and away
With Nature, the dear old nurse,

Who sang to him night and day
The rhymes of the universe.

And whenever the way seemed long,

Or his heart began to fail,
She wonld sing a more wonderful song,

Or tell a more marvellons tale.

So she keeps him still a child.

And will not 1st him go. Thongh at times Itis heart beats wild.

For the beantiinl Pays de Vand ,

Thongh at times he hears in his dreams
The Ranz des Vaches of old.

And the rush of monntain streams
From glaciers clear and cold;

And the mother at home says, " Hark!

Fur liis voice 1 listen and yearn: II is growing fate and dark.

And my boy does not return;"

CHILDREN.

Come to me, Oye children!

For I hear yon are at yonr play, And the qnestious that perplex me

Have vanished quite away.

Ye open the eastern windows.

That look towards the sun.
Where thonghts are singing swallows

And the brooks of morning run.

In yonr hearts are the birds and the suushine,
In yonr thoughts the brooklets flow.

Bnt in mine is the wind of Antuum,
And the first fall of the suow.

Ah! what wonld the world he to us

If the children were no more?
We shonld dread the desert behind us

Worse than the dark before.

What the leaves are to the forest,

With light and air for food.
Ere their sweet and tender juices

Have been hardened into wood,—

That to the world are children;

Throngh them it feels the glow Of a brighter and suunier climate

Than reaches the trunks below.

Come to ine, O ye children,

And whisper in mv ear
What the birds and the winds are singing

In yonr suuny atmosphere.

For what are all onr contrivings.

And the wisdom of onr books, When compared with yonr caresses.

And th'e gladuess of yonr looks?

Ye are better than all the ballads

That ever were sung or said; For ye are living poems.

And all the rest are dead.

SANDALPHON.

Have yon read in the Taimnd of old,
In the Legends the Rabbius have told

Of the limitless reaims of the air,— Have yon rend it,—the marvellous story Of Sandalphon, the Angel of Glory,

Sandalphon, the Angel of Prayer?

How, ereet, at the ontermost gates
Of the City Celestial he waits,

With his feet on the ladder of light. That, crowded with angels ununmbered. By Jacob was seen, as he slumbered

Alone in the desert at night?

The Angels of Wind and of Flre
Chant oniy one hyum, and expire

With the song's irresistible stress;
Expire in their rapture and wonder.
As narp-strings are broken asunder,

Bj music tfcey throb to express.

Bnt serene in the rapturons throng,
Uumoved by the rush of the song.

With eyes unimpassioned and slow,
Among the dead angels, the deathiess
Sandalphon stands listening breathiess

To sonnds that ascend from below;—

From the spirits on earth that adore.
From the sonls that entreat and implore

In the fervonr and passion of prayer;
From the hearts that are broken with losses.
And weary with dragging the crosses

Too heavy for mortals to bear.

And he gathers the prayers as he stands.
And they change into flowers in his hands,

Into garlands of purple and red;
And beneath the great areh of the portal.
Throngh the streets of the City Immortal

Is wafted the fragrance they shed.

It is bnt a legend, I know,—
A fable, a phantom, a show,

Of the ancient Rabbinical tore;
Yet the old mediaeval tradition.
The beantiful, strange superstition.

Bnt haunts me and holds me the more.

When I look from my window at night,
And the welkin above is all white.

All throbbing and panting with stars,
Among them majestic is standing
Sandalphon the angel, expanding

His pinious in nebulons bars.

And the legend, I feel, is a part

Of the hunger and thirst of the heart,

The frenzy and Are of the brain. That grasps at the fruitage forbidden. The golden pomegranates of Eden,

To quiet its fever and pain.

EPIMETHEUS;

OR, THE POET'S AFTER THOUGHT.

Hate I dreamed? or was it real.

What I saw as in a vision. When to inarehes hymeneal. In the land of the ideal.

Moved my thonght o'er field Elysian?

What! are these the gnests whose glances Seemed like suushine gleaming/ round me

These the wild, bewildered fancies.

That with dithyrambic dances,
As with magic cireles, bonnd mc?

Ah! how cold are their caresses!

Pallid cheeks and haggard bosoms! Speetral gleam their suow-white dresses, And from loose, dishevelled tresses,

Fall the hyacinthine blossoms!

O my songs! whose wiusome measures
Filled my heart with secret rapture!

Children of my golden leisures!

Must even your delights and pleasures
Fade and perish with the capture?

Fair they seemed, those songs sonorons,
When they came to me uubidden;

Voices single, and in chorus.

Like the wild birds singing o'er us lu the dark of branches hidden.

Disenchantment! Dis-illusion!

Must each noble aspiration Come at last t» this conclusion, Jarring discord, wild confusion.

Lassitnde, renunciation?

Not with steeper fall nor faster.

From the sun's serene dominions.
Not throngh brighter reaims nor vaster,
In swift ruin and disaster

Icarus fell with shattered pinions.

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