Through the mist of the valley damp and | And the dead captains, as they lay 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 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, 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, 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 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." Then an old man in a tower, Then within a prison-yard, Blow, and sweep it from the earth! Then a school-boy, with his kite And an eager, upward look ; And an angler by a brook. Ships rejoicing in the breeze, Wrecks that float o'er unknown seas, Anchors dragged through faithless sand; Sea-fog drifting overhead, All these scenes do I behold, In that building long and low; While the wheel goes round and round, With a drowsy, dreamy sound, And the spinners backward go. 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. At the window winks the flickering firelight; Here and there the lamps of evening glimmer, Social watch-fires Answering one another through the darkness. Every distance CATAWBA WINE. THIS song of mine Is a Song of the Vine, To be sung by the glowing embers Of wayside inns, When the rain begins To darken the drear Novembers. It is not a song Of the Scuppernong, And the Muscadel Nor the red Mustang, Of whose purple blood For richest and best Is the wine of the West, And as hollow trees Through the gateways of the world With a swarming and buzzing and hum‹ around him. As he heard them ming. Very good in its way Or the Sillery soft and creamy; Is the Verzenay, But Catawba wine Has a taste more divine, When he sat with those who were, but More dulcet, delicious, and dreamy. are not. |