Paced the cloisters, knelt to pray, And the poet heard their bells; 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; Not a name Remains to fame, From those mouldering days of old! But the poet's memory here Of the landscape makes a part; Flows his song through many a heart; That ancient mill, In the Valley of the Vire. VICTOR GALBRAITH. NDER the walls of Monterey At daybreak the bugles began to play, In the mist of the morning damp and grey, Victor Galbraith!" Forth he came, with a martial tread ; Firm was his step, erect his head; He who so well the bugle played, Could not mistake the words it said: "Come forth to thy death, Victor Galbraith!" He looked at the earth, he looked at the sky, He looked at the files of musketry, Victor Galbraith! And he said, with a steady voice and eye, "Take good aim; I am ready to die!" Thus challenges death Victor Galbraith. Twelve fiery tongues flashed straight and red, Victor Galbraith Falls to the ground, but he is not dead; His name was not stamped on those balls of lead, And they only scathe Victor Galbraith. Three balls are in his breast and brain, Victor Galbraith! The water he drinks has a bloody stain; Victor Galbraith. Forth dart once more those tongues of flame, His soul has gone back to whence it came, When the Sergeant saith, "Victor Galbraith!" Under the walls of Monterey By night a bugle is heard to play, Through the mist of the valley damp and gray "That is the wraith Of Victor Galbraith!" MY LOST YOUTH. FTEN I think of the beautiful town Often in thought go up and down 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 : |