All their lives long, with the unleavened bread And bitter herbs of exile and its fears, The wasting famine of the heart they fed, And slaked its thirst with marah of their tears.
Anathema maranatha! was the cry That rang from town to town, from street to street;At every gate the accursed Mordecai Was mocked and jeered, and spurned by Christian feet.
Pride and humiliation hand in hand Walked with them through the world where'er they went;Trampled and beaten were they as the sand, And yet unshaken as the continent.
For in the background figures vague and vast Of patriarchs and of prophets rose sublime, And all the great traditions of the Past They saw reflected in the coming time.
And thus for ever with reverted look The mystic volume of the world they read, Spelling it backward, like a Hebrew book, Till life became a Legend of the Dead.
But ah! what once has been shall be no more!
The groaning earth in travail and in pain Brings forth its races, but does not restore, And the dead nations never rise again.
OLIVER BASSELIN
In the Valley of the Vire Still is seen an ancient mill, With its gables quaint and queer, And beneath the window-sill, On the stone, These words alone:
"Oliver Basselin lived here."
Far above it, on the steep, Ruined stands the old Chateau;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, Looked, but ah! it looks no more, From the neighboring hillside down On the rushing and the roar Of the stream Whose sunny gleam Cheers the little Norman town.
In that darksome mill of stone, To the water's dash and din, Careless, humble, and unknown, Sang the poet Basselin Songs that fill 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, Find an answer in each heart;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, Watched and waited, spur on heel;But the poet sang for sport Songs that rang Another clang, Songs that lowlier hearts could feel.
In the convent, clad in gray, Sat the monks in lonely cells, Paced the cloisters, knelt to pray, And the poet heard their bells;But his rhymes 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;Like the river, swift and clear, Flows his song through many a heart;Haunting still That ancient mill, In the Valley of the Vire.
VICTOR GALBRAITH
Under the walls of Monterey At daybreak the bugles began to play, Victor Galbraith!
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;
Victor Galbraith, 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, 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, Victor Galbraith!
The water he drinks has a bloody stain;
"O kill me, and put me out of my pain!"
In his agony prayeth Victor Galbraith.
Forth dart once more those tongues of flame, And the bugler has died a death of shame, Victor Galbraith!
His soul has gone back to whence it came, And no one answers to the name, When the Sergeant saith, "Victor Galbraith!"Under the walls of Monterey By night a bugle is heard to play, Victor Galbraith!
Through the mist of the valley damp and 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 That is seated by the sea;Often in thought go up and down The pleasant streets of that dear old town, And my youth comes back to me.
And a verse of a Lapland song 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 catch, in sudden gleams, The sheen of the far-surrounding seas, And islands that were the Hersperides Of all my boyish dreams.
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 fort upon the hill;The sunrise gun, with its hollow roar, The drum-beat repeated o'er and o'er, And the bugle wild and shrill.
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, 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.
