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Trne, his songs were not divine;
Were; not songs of that high art,
From the alehonse and the iun.
Opening on the narrow street.
In the castle, cased in steel,
Knights, who fonght in Aginconrt,
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-
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.
Undee the walls of Monterey
At daybreak the bugles began to play,
"Come forth to thy death,
Forth he came, with a martini tread;
"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
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
Three balls are in bis breast and brain,
The water he drinks has a bloody stafn,
In his agony prayeth
Forth dart once more those tongnes of flame,
When the Sergeant saith
Under the wall of Monterey
"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;
In quiet neighbonrhoods.
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."
Ix that building, long and low.
Like tho port-holes of a hulk,
Drooping, each a hempen bulk.
At the end. an open door;
Light the long and dusty lane:
All its spokes'are in my brain.
As the spiuners to the end
Two fair maideus in a swing.
Flrst before my vision pass;
At their shadow on the grass.
Then a booth of monntebanks
And a girl poised high in air
And a weary look of care.
Then a homestead among farms,
Drawing water from a well;
As nt some magician's spell.
Then an old njan in a tower,
While the rope coils round and ronnd
Nearly lifts him from the gronnd.
Then within a prison-yard,
Laughter and indecent mirth;
Blow, and sweep it from*the earth!
Then a schooiboy, with his kite
And an eager, upward look;
And an angler by a brook.
Ships rejoicing in the breeze.
Anchors dragged throngh faithiess sand;
Sailors feeling for the land
All these scenes do I behold.
In that building long and low;
All the spiuners backward go.
In his farthest wanderings still he sees it; Hears the talking flame, the auswering nightwind,
As he heard them
Happy he who neither wealth nor fashion,
Drives an exile .
We may build more splendid habitatious,
Bnt we caunot
This song of mine
Is a song of the Vine,
Of wayside inus,
When the rain begius
It is not a song
Of the Scuppernong,
Nor the Isabel
And the umscadel
Nor the red Mustang,
Whose clusters hang
And the fiery flood
Of whose purple blood
For richest and best
Is the wine of the West,
Whose sweet perfume
Fllls nil the room
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,
But Catawba wine
Has a taste more divine,
There grows no vino
By the haunted Rhine, By Danube or Guadalquivir,
Nor on highiand or cape,
That bears snch a grape.
Drugged is their juice
For foreigu use,
To rack onr braius.
With the fever paius.
To the sewers and sinks
With all snch drinks.
For a poison maligu,
Is snch Borgia wine,
While pure as a spring,
Is the wine I sing.
For Catawba wine
Has need of no sigu.
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.
Whene'ee a noble deed is wronght,
Our hearts, in glad surprise,
To higher levels rise.
The tidal wave of deeper souls
And lifts us unawares
Ont of all meaner cares.
Hononr to those whose words or deeds
Thus thonght I, as by night I read
The wonnded from the battle-plain,
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 slow as in a dream of bliss,
As if a door in heaven shonld be
On England's aunals throngh the long
That light its rays shall cast
From portals of the past.
A Lady with a lamp shall stand
A noble type of good,
Nor even shall be wanting here
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,
Which he held in his brown right hand.
His figure was tall and stately.
Like a boys his eye appeared;
Gleamed in his tawny beard.
Hearty and hale was Othere,
With a kind of Laugh in his speech,
Like the sea-tide on a beach,
And Alfred. King of the Saxous,
Had a book upon his knees,
Into the Aretic seas.
"So far I live to the northward,
No man lives north of me;
To the westward all is sea.
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,
"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;
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,
"The days grew longer and longer,
Till they became as one,
Of the red miduight sun.
"And then uprose before me,
Upon the water's edge.
Whose form is like a wedge.
"The sea was rongh and stormy.
And the sea-fog, like a ghost,
Haunted that dreary coast,
"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 an incredulons smile.
Bnt Othere, the old sea-captain,
Till the King listened, and then
Once more took up his pen,
"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;
Flew onr harpoous of steel.
Norsemen of Helgoland;
And dragged them to the strand.
Here Alfred the Trnth-Teller
Snddeuly closed his book,
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!"
A Wind came up ont of the sea,
And said, "O mists, make room for me."
It hailed the ships, and cried, "Sail on,
And hurried landward far away.
It said unto the the forest, "Shont!
It tonched the wood-bird's folded wing,
And o'er the farms, " O chanticleer,
It shonted throngh the belfry-tower,
It crossed the chureh-yard with a sigh,
THE FIFTIETH BIRTHDAY OF AGASSIZ.
It was fifty years ago
In the beautiful Pays de Vand,
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
Who sang to him night and day
And whenever the way seemed long,
Or his heart began to fail,
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
And the rush of monntain streams
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;"
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.
And the brooks of morning run.
In yonr hearts are the birds and the suushine,
Bnt in mine is the wind of Antuum,
Ah! what wonld the world he to us
If the children were no more?
Worse than the dark before.
What the leaves are to the forest,
With light and air for food.
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
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.
Have yon read in the Taimnd of old,
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
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
With the song's irresistible stress;
Bj music tfcey throb to express.
Bnt serene in the rapturons throng,
With eyes unimpassioned and slow,
To sonnds that ascend from below;—
From the spirits on earth that adore.
In the fervonr and passion of prayer;
Too heavy for mortals to bear.
And he gathers the prayers as he stands.
Into garlands of purple and red;
Is wafted the fragrance they shed.
It is bnt a legend, I know,—
Of the ancient Rabbinical tore;
Bnt haunts me and holds me the more.
When I look from my window at night,
All throbbing and panting with stars,
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.
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,
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
Children of my golden leisures!
Must even your delights and pleasures
Fair they seemed, those songs sonorons,
Voices single, and in chorus.
Like the wild birds singing o'er us lu the dark of branches hidden.
Must each noble aspiration Come at last t» this conclusion, Jarring discord, wild confusion.
Not with steeper fall nor faster.
From the sun's serene dominions.
Icarus fell with shattered pinions.