VICTOR GALBRAITH. UNDER the walls of Monterey 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; He who so well the bugle played, He looked at the earth, he looked at the sky, He looked at the files of musketry, And he said, with a steady voice and eye, Twelve fiery tongues flashed straight and red, Six leaden balls on their errand sped; Falls to the ground, but he is not dead; His name was not stamped on those balls of lead, And they only scath 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 heart weak, And bring a pallor into the cheek, 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, 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, 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. |