Twelve fiery tongues flashed straight and red, Falls to the ground, but he is not dead; His name was not stamped on those balls of lead, Three balls are in his breast and brain, 66 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, "Victor Galbraith!" Under the walls of Monterey Through the mist of the valley damp and grey MY LOST YOUTH. OFTEN I think of the beautiful town The pleasant streets of that dear old town, And the thoughts of youth are long, long thoughts." And the burden of that old song, 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 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, And the music of that old song "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 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 The song and the silence in the heart, 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." Is that building, long and low, With its windows all a-row, THE ROPEWALK. 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; Gleam the long threads in the sun; Two fair maidens in a swing, First before my vision pass; 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, Blow, and sweep it from the earth! Then a schoolboy, with his kite And an eager, upward look; And an angler by a brook. Ships rejoicing in the breeze, Sea-fog drifting overhead, Sailors feeling for the land. 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 MILESTONE. 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, Tower aloft into the air of amber. At the window winks the flickering fire-light; Answering one another through the darkness. On the hearth the lighted logs are glowing, For its freedom Groans and sighs the air imprisoned in them. Asking sadly Of the Past what it can ne er restore them. By the fireside there are youthful dreamers, Of the Future what it cannot give them. By the fireside tragedies are acted And above them God the sole spectator. By the fireside there are peace and comfort, For a well-known footstep in the passage. Each man's chimney is his Golden Milestone, Through the gateways of the world around him. In his farthest wanderings still he sees it; When he sat with those who were, but are not. Happy he whom neither wealth nor fashion, Drives an exile From the hearth of his ancestral homestead. We may build more splendid habitations, Fill our rooms with paintings and with sculptures, But we cannot Buy with gold the old associations! |