Never feeling of unrest Broke the pleasant dream he dreamed; Only made to be his nest, All the lovely valley seemed; Of soaring higher True, his songs were not divine; Of this green earth From the alehouse and the inn, In the castle, cased in steel, Knights, who fought at Agincourt, In the convent, clad in gray, Sat the monks in lonely cells, Paced the cloisters, knelt to pray, And the poet heard their bells; But his rhymes 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; Under the walls of Monterey Through the mist of the valley damp and gray The sentinels hear the sound, and say, "That is the wraith Of Victor Galbraith!" MY LOST YOUTH. OFTEN I think of the beautiful town That is seated by the sea; Often in thought go up and down The pleasant streets of that dear old town, And my youth comes back to me. And a verse of a Lapland song 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, 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 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 neighborhoods. 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 school-boy'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, 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, And with joy that is almost pain My heart goes back to wander there, And among 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 youth are long, long thoughts." THE ROPEWALK. IN that building, long and low, Like the port-holes of a hulk, Gleam the long threads in the sun; While within this brain of mine Cobwebs brighter and more fine By the busy wheel are spun. Then a homestead among farms, And a woman with bare arms Drawing water from a well; Nearly lifts him from the ground. Blow, and sweep it from the earth! Then a school-boy, with his kite Gleaming in a sky of light, And an eager, upward look; Ships rejoicing in the breeze, Sea-fog drifting overhead, All these scenes do I behold, In that building long and low; THE GOLDEN MILE-STONE. LEAFLESS are the trees; their purple branches Spread themselves abroad, like reefs of coral, Rising silent In the Red Sea of the winter sunset. From the hundred chimneys of the village, Like the Afreet in the Arabian story, Tower aloft into the air of amber. It is not a song Of the Scuppernong, And the Muscadel Nor the red Mustang, Of whose purple blood Is the wine of the West, Fills all the room And as hollow trees Is all alive With a swarming and buzzing and humming. Very good in its way Is the Verzenay, Or the Sillery soft and creamy; Has a taste more divine, There grows no vine When shipped o'er the reeling Atlantic, With the fever pains, That have driven the Old World frantic. To the sewers and sinks And after them tumble the mixer; Is such Borgia wine, Or at best but a Devil's Elixir. While pure as a spring Is the wine I sing, And to praise it, one needs but name it; For Catawba wine Has need of no sign, No tavern-bush to proclaim it. And this Song of the Vine, The winds and the birds shall deliver On the banks of the Beautiful River. SANTA FILOMENA. WHENE'ER a noble deed is wrought, The tidal wave of deeper souls And lifts us unawares Out of all meaner cares. Honor to those whose words or deeds Raise us from what is low! The trenches cold and damp, The wounded from the battle-plain, In dreary hospitals of pain, The cheerless corridors, The cold and stony floors. Lo! in that house of misery A lady with a lamp I see Passthrough the glimmering gloom, And slow, as in a dream of bliss, Upon the darkening walls. As if a door in heaven should be The light shone and was spent. A Lady with a Lamp shall stand Nor even shall be wanting here THE DISCOVERER OF THE A LEAF FROM KING ALFRED'S OROSIUS. His figure was tall and stately, Like a boy's his eye appeared; His cheek had the color of oak; As unto the King he spoke. |