By the fireside there are old men seated, 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 Mile-stone; 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, Buy with gold the old associations! THE JEWISH CEMETERY AT NEWPORT. How strange it seems! These Hebrews in their graves, Close by the street of this fair seaport town, Silent beside the never-silent waves, At rest in all this moving up and down! The trees are white with dust, that o'er their sleep Wave their broad curtains in the south wind's breath, While underneath such leafy tents they keep The long mysterious Exodus of Death. And these sepulchral stones, so old and brown, That pave with level flags their burial-place, The very names recorded here are strange, With Abraham and Jacob of old times. "Blessed be God! for He created Death!" The mourners said, "and Death is rest and peace;" Then added, in the certainty of faith, "And giveth Life that never more shall cease." Closed are the portals of their Synagogue, In the grand dialect the Prophets spake. Still keeps their graves and their remembrance green. Drove o'er the sea- that desert desolate- They lived in narrow streets and lanes obscure, All their lives long, with the unleavened bread 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; For in the background figures vague and vast And thus for ever with reverted look The mystic volume of the world they read, But ah! what once has been shall be no more. OLIVER BASSELIN. [Oliver Basselin, the "Père joyeux du Vaudeville," flourished in the fifteenth century, and gave to his convivial songs the name of his native valleys, in which he sang them, Vaux-de-Vire. This name was afterwards corrupted into the modern Vaudeville.] IN the Valley of the Vire Still is seen an ancient mill, These words alone: "Oliver Basselin lived here." Far above it, on the steep, Stare at the skies, Stare at the valley green and deep. Once a convent, old and brown, Cheers the little Norman town. In that darksome mill of stone, That ancient mill With a splendour of its own. Never feeling of unrest Broke the pleasant dream he dreamed; Only made to be his nest, All the lovely valley seemed; Of soaring higher Stirred or fluttered in his breast. True, his songs were not divine; Of this green earth Laughed and revelled in his line. From the alehouse and the inn, That in those days Sang the poet Basselin. In the castle, cased in steel, Knights, who fought at Agincourt, Songs that lowlier hearts could feel. 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. THE DISCOVERER OF THE NORTH CAPE. A LEAF FROM KING ALFRED'S OROSIUS. OTHERE, the old sea-captain, To King Alfred, the Lover of Truth, His figure was tall and stately, Hearty and hale was Othere, His cheek had the colour of oak; And Alfred, King of the Saxons, "So far I live to the northward, To the east are wild mountain-chains, "So far I live to the northward, If With a fair wind all the way, More than a month would you sai!. "I own six hundred reindeer, "I ploughed the land with horses, For the old seafaring men Came to me now and then, With their sagas of the seas: |