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Through the mist of the valley damp and grey
The sentinels hear the sound, and say,

“That is the wraith
Of Victor Galbraith!”

DAYLIGHT AND MOONLIGHT.
In broad daylight, and at noon,
Yesterday I saw the moon
Sailing high, but faint and white,
As a schoolboy's paper kite.
In broad daylight yesterday,
I read a poet's mystic lay;
And it seemed to me at most
As a phantom, or a ghost.
But at length the feverish day
Like a passion died away,
And the night, serene and still,
Fell on village, vale, and hill.
Then the moon, in all her pride,
Like a spirit glorified,
Filled and overflowed the night
With revelations of her light.
And the poet's song again
Passed like music through my brain;
Night interpreted to me
All its grace and mystery.

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 catch, in sudden gleams,
The sheen of the far-surrounding seas,
And islands that were the Hesperides
Of all my boyish dreams.

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,

How it thundered o'er the tide!
And the dead captains, as they lay
In their graves o'erlooking the tranquil bay,
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 Autters 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, And bring a pallor into the cheek,

And a mist before the eye.

.

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

When I visit the dear old town;
But 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 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,
With its windows all a-row,

Like the port-holes of a hulk,
Human spiders spin and spin,
Backward down their threads so thin

Dropping, each a hempen bulk.
At the end, an open door;
Squares of sunshine on the floor

Light the long and dusky lane;

And the whirring of a wheel,
Dull and drowsy, makes me feel
All its spokes are in my

brain. As the spinners to the end Downward go and reascend,

Gleam the long threads in the sun; While within this brain of mine Cobwebs brighter and more fine

By the busy wheel are spun. Two fair maidens in a swing, Like white doves upon the wing,

First before my vision pass; Laughing, as their gentle hands Closely clasp the twisted strands,

At their shadow on the grass. Then a booth of mountebanks, With its smell of tan and planks,

And a girl poised high in air On a cord, in spangled 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 bucket mounts apace,
With it mounts her own fair face,

As at some magician's spell.
Then an old man in a tower,
Ringing loud the noontide hour,

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

Nearly lifts him from the ground.

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