And, knowing whatsoe'er he sent was best, Dared neither to lament nor to rejoice. Then with a smile, that filled the house with light, "My errand is not Death, but Life," And ere I answered, passing out of sight, 'T was at thy door, O friend! and not at mine, The angel with the amaranthine wreath, Pausing, descended, and with voice divine, Whispered a word that had a sound like Death. Then fell upon the house a sudden gloom, A shadow on those features fair and thin; And softly, from that hushed and darkened room, And the night, serene and still, Then the moon, in all her pride, And the Poet's song again THE JEWISH CEMETERY AT NEWPORT. How strange it seems! These Hebrews in their graves. Close by the street of this fair seaport Silent beside the never-silent waves, Two angels issued, where but one went The trees are white with dust, that o'er in. All is of God! If he but wave his hand, The mists collect, the rain falls thick and loud, Till, with a smile of light on sea and land, Lo! he looks back from the departing cloud. Angels of Life and Death alike are his ; Without his leave they pass no threshold o'er ; Who, then, would wish or dare, believing this, Against his messengers to shut the door? DAYLIGHT AND MOONLIGHT. IN broad daylight, and at noon, In broad daylight, yesterday, But at length the feverish day their sleep Wave their broad curtains in the The long, mysterious Exodus of And these sepulchral stones, so old and brown, That pave with level flags their burial Seem like the tablets of the Law, thrown And broken by Moses at the moun- The very names recorded here are strange, Of foreign accent, and of different climes; Alvares and Rivera interchange With Abraham and Jacob of old times. "Blessed be God! for he created Death!" The mourners said, "and Death is Then added, in the certainty of faith, Never feeling of unrest Broke the pleasant dream he dreamed; Only made to be his nest, All the lovely valley seemed; Of soaring higher 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, In the castle, cased in steel, 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 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 Three balls are in his breast and brain, The water he drinks has a bloody stain; Forth dart once more those tongues of flame, And the bugler has died a death of shame, His soul has gone back to whence it came, Under the walls of Monterey Through the mist of the valley damp and | And the dead captains, as they lay 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, 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 friendships old and the early loves Come back with a sabbath sound, as of doves 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 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." |