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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.
Had a book upon his knees,
Into the Arctic seas.
No man lives north of me; To the east are wild mountain-chains, And beyond them meres and plains;
To the westward all is sea. “So far I live to the northward,
From the harbour of Skeringes-hale, If you only sailed by day, With a fair wind all the way,
More than a month would you sail. “I own six hundred reindeer,
With sheep and swine beside ; I have tribute from the Finns, Whalebone and rein-deer skins,
And ropes of walrus-hide. “I ploughed the land with horses,
But 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 Greenland,
And the stormy Hebrides, And the undiscovered deep ;I could not eat nor sleep
For thinking of those seas. “To the northward stretched the desert,
How far I fain would know;
As far as the whale-ships go.
To the right the desolate shore,
Till they became as one,
Of the red midnight sun.
“And then uprose before nie,
Upon the water's edge,
Whose form is like a wedge.
The tempest howled and wailed, And the sea-fog, like a ghost, Haunted that dreary coast,
But onward still I sailed. “Four days I steered to eastward,
Four days without a night:
With red and lurid light.
Ceased writing for a while ;
And an incredulous smile.
He neither paused nor stirred,
“Bent southward suddenly, And I followed the curving shore, And ever southward bore
Into a nameless sea.
The narwhale, and the seal ;
Flew our harpoons of steel.
Norsemen of Helgoland;
And dragged them to the strand !” Here Alfred, the Truth-Teller,
Suddenly closed his book,
Depicted in their look.
Stared at him wild and weird,
His tawny, quivering beard.
And to the King of the Saxons,
Three balls are in his breast and brain, In witness of the truth,
But he rises out of the dust again, Raising his noble head,
Victor Galbraith! He stretched his brown hand, and said, The water he drinks has a bloody stain; “Behold this walrus-tooth!”
“Okill me, and put me out of my pain!”
In his agony prayeth
Forth dart once more those tongues of UNDER the walls of Monterey
flame, At daybreak the bugles began to play,
And the bugler has died a death of Victor Galbraith!
Victor Galbraith! In the mist of the morning damp and
His soul has gone back to whence it gray, These were the words they seemed to
And no one answers to the name,
When the Sergeant saith,
Under the walls of Monterey Forth he came, with a martial tread;
By night a bugle is heard to play, Firm was his step, erect his head;
Victor Galbraith! Victor Galbraith,
Through the mist of the valley damp He who so well the bugle played, Could not mistake the words it said:
hear the sound, and say, “Come forth to thy death,
“That is the wraith Victor Galbraith!'
Of Victor Galbraith!” He looked at the earth, he looked at the sky,
CHILDREN. He looked at the files of musketry,
COME to me, O ye children! Victor Galbraith!
For I hear you at your play, And he said, with a steady voice and
And the questions that perplexed me eye,
Have vanished quite away. “Take good aim; I am ready to die !” Thus challenges death
Ye open the eastern windows,
That look towards the sun, Victor Galbraith.
Where thoughts are singing swallows, Twelve fiery tongues flashed straight And the brooks of morning run.
and red, Six leaden balls on their errand sped;
In your hearts are the birds and the
sunshine, Victor Galbraith
In your thoughts the brooklet's flow; Falls to the ground, but he is not dead;
But in mine is the wind of Autumn, His name was not stamped on those And the first fall of the snow.
balls of lead, And they only scath
Ah! what would the world be to us,
If the children were no more? Victor Galbraith.
We should dread the desert behind us
Worse than the dark before. * This poem is founded on fact. Victor Galbraith was a bugler isi a
What the leaves are to the forest, company of volunteer cavalry, and was With light and air for food, shot in Mexico for some breach of dis- Ere their sweet and tender juices cipline. It is a conimon superstition
Have been hardened into wood,among soldiers that no balls will kill That to the world are children; them unless their names are written on Through them it feels the glow them. The old proverb says, “Every Of a brighter and sunnier climate bullet has its billet.”
Than reaches the trunks below.
Come to me, O ye children !
And the bugle wild and shrill. And whisper in my ear
And the music of that old song What the birds and the winds are Throbs in my memory still: singing
“A boy's will is the wind's will, In your sunny atmosphere.
And the thoughts of youth are long, For what are all our contrivings,
long thoughts." And the wisdom of our books,
I remember the sea-fight far away, When compared with your caresses,
How it thundered o'er the tide! And the gladness of your
looks? And the dead captains, as they lay Ye are better than all the ballads
In their graves, o'erlooking the tranquil That ever were sung or said;
bay, For ye are living poems,
Where they in battle died. And all the rest are dead.
And the sound of that mournful song
Goes through me with a thrill:
“A boy's will is the wind's will, MY LOST YOUTH.
And the thoughts of youth are long, OFTEN I think of the beautiful town
long thoughts." That is seated by the sea;
I can see the breezy dome of groves, Often in thought go up and down
The shadows of Deering's Woods: The pleasant streets of that dear old
And the friendships old and the early town,
loves And my youth cames back to me. Come back with a sabbath sound, as of And a verse of a Lapland song
doves Is haunting my memory still:
In quiet neighbourhoods. “A boy's will is the wind's will,
And the verse of that sweet old And the thoughts of youth are long,
song, long thoughts.
It flutters and murmurs still: I can see the shadowy lines of its trees, “A boy's will is the wind's will,
And catch, in sudden gleams, And the thoughts of youth are long, The sheen of the far-surrounding seas,
long thoughts." And islands that were the Hesperides I remember the gleams and glooms Of all my boyish dreams.
It murmurs and whispers still: The song and the silence in the heart, “A boy's will is the wind's will,
That in part are prophecies, and in part And the thoughts of youth are long, Are longings wild and vain. long thoughts."
And the voice of that fitful song I remember the black wharves and the Sings on, and is never still: slips,
“A boy's will is the wind's will, And the sea-tides tossing free; And the thoughts of youth are long, And Spanish sailors with bearded lips,
long thoughts." And the beauty and mystery of the There are things of which I may not ships,
speak; And the magic of the sea.
There are dreams that cannot die ! And the voice of that wayward song
There are thoughts that make the Is singing and saying still:
strong heart weak, “A boy's will is the wind's will, And the thoughts of youth are long, * This was the engagement between long thoughts.
the Enterprise and Boxer, off the I remember the bulwarks by the shore, harbour of Portland, in which both And the fort upon the hill ;
captains were slain. They were buried The sunrise gun, with its hollow roar, side by side, in the cemetery on The drum-beat repeated o'er and o'er, Mountjoy.
And bring a pallor into the cheek, Honour to those whose words or deed,
Thus help us in our daily needs,
And by their overflow
Raise us from what is low! “A boy's will is the wind's will, Thus thought I, as by night I read And the thoughts of youth are long, Of the great army of the dead, long thoughts.
The trenches cold and damp, Strange to me now are the forms I meet The starved and frozen camp,
When I visit the dear old town ; The wounded from the battle-plain, But the native air is pure and sweet, In dreary hospitals of pain, And the trees that o'ershadow each
The cheerless corridors, well-known street,
The cold and stony floors. As they balance up and down,
Lo! in that house of misery L Are singing the beautiful song,
A lady with a lamp I see Are sighing and whispering still:
Pass through the glimmering “A boy's will is the wind's will,
gloom, And the thoughts of youth are long, And Ait from room to room. long thoughts."
And slow, as in a dream of bliss, And Deering's Woods are fresh and fair,
The speechless sufferer turns to kiss And with joy that is almost pain
Her shadow, as it falls My heart goes back to wander there,
Upon the darkening walls. And among the dreams of the days that
As if a door in heaven should be I find my lost youth again.
Opened and then closed suddenly,
The vision came and went, And the strange and beautiful song,
The light shone and was spent. The groves are repeating it still: "A boy's will is the wind's will, On England's annals, through the long And the thoughts of youth are long,
Hereafter of her speech and song, long thoughts."
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, Whene'er is spoken a noble thought,
Heroic womanhood. Our hearts in glad surprise,
Nor even shall be wanting here To higher levels rise.
The palm, the lily, and the spear, The tidal wave of deeper souls
The symbols that of yore
Saint Filomena bore.
SANDALPHON. * " At Pisa the church of San Have you read in the Talmud of old, Francisco contains a chapel dedicated In the Legends the Rabbins have told lately to Santa Filomena; over the
Of the limitless realms of the air,altar is a picture, by Sabatelli, repre
Have you read it,--the marvellous story senting the Saint as a beautiful, nymph- Of Sandalphon, the Angel of Glory, like figure, floating down from heaven, Sandalphon, the Angel of Prayer? attended by two angels, bearing the How, erect, at the outermost gates lily, palm, and javelin, and beneath, in Of the City Celestial he waits, the foreground, the sick and maimed, With his feet on the ladder of light, who are healed by her intercession,”- That,crowded with angels unnumbered, Mrs. JAMESON, Sacred and Legendary By Jacob was seen, as he slumbered Art, II. 298.
Alone in the desert at night?
The Angels of Wind and of Fire
With the song's irresistible stress :
By music they throb to express. But serene in the rapturous throng, Unmoved by the rush of the song,
With eyes unimpassioned and slow, Among the dead angels, the deathless Sandalphon stands listening breathless
To sounds that ascend from below;From the spirits on earth that adore, From the souls that entreat and implore
In the fervour 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 arch
of the portal, Through the streets of the CityImmortal
Is wasted the fragrance they shed.
Of the ancient Rabbinical lore;
But 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 pinions in nebulous bars. And the legend, I feel, is a part Of the hunger and thirst of the heart,
The frenzy and fire of the brain, That grasps at the fruitage forbidden, The golden pomegranates of Eden,
To quiet its fever and pain.
Is a Song of the Vine,
Of wayside inns,
When the rain begins
It is not a song
Of the Scuppernong, From warm Carolinian valleys,
Nor the Isabel
And the Muscadel
Nor the red Mustang,
Whose clusters hang
And the fiery flood
Of whose purple blood Has a dash of Spanish bravado.
For richest and best
Is the wine of the West,
Whose sweet perfume
Fills all 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
DAYBREAK. A WIND came up out of the sea, And said, “O‘mists, make room for
me. It hailed the ships, and cried, “Sailon, Ye mariners, the night is gone."