Spelling it backward, like a Hebrew book, But ah! what once has been shall be no more! OLIVER BASSELIN IN the Valley of the Vire IN Still is seen an ancient mill, With its gables quaint and queer, On the stone, These words alone : "Oliver Basselin lived here." Far above it, on the steep, Ruined stands the old Château; Nothing but the donjon-keep Left for shelter or for show. Its vacant eyes Stare at the skies, Stare at the valley green and deep. Once a convent, old and brown, Whose sunny gleam Cheers the little Norman town. In that darksome mill of stone, That ancient mill With a splendor of its own. Never feeling of unrest Broke the pleasant dream he dreamed; Only made to be his nest, All the lovely valley seemed; No desire Of soaring higher Stirred or fluttered in his breast. True, his songs were not divine; Were not songs of that high art, Which, as winds do in the pine, But the mirth Of this green earth Laughed and revelled in his line. From the alehouse and the inn, Opening on the narrow street, Came the loud, convivial din, Singing and applause of feet, The laughing lays That in those days Sang the poet Basselin. In the castle, cased in steel, Knights, who fought at Agincourt, Another clang, Songs that lowlier hearts could feel. In the convent, clad in gray, 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 INDER the walls of Monterey UNDER At daybreak the bugles began to play, In the mist of the morning damp and gray, These were the words they seemed to say: "Come forth to thy death, 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, 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, Six leaden balls on their errand sped; Victor Galbraith Falls to the ground, but he is not dead; His name was not stamped on those balls of lead, And they only scath Victor Galbraith. Three balls are in his breast and brain, But he rises out of the dust again, The water he drinks has a bloody stain; Victor Galbraith. Forth dart once more those tongues of flame, Victor Galbraith! His soul has gone back to whence it came, When the Sergeant saith, "Victor Galbraith! |