They lived in narrow streets and lanes obscure, All their lives long, with the unleavened bread 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, 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.78 IN the Valley of the Vire These words alone: "Oliver Basselin lived here." Far above it, on the steep, Ruined stands the old Château ; Nothing but the donjon-keep 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 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: No desire 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, Another clang, Songs that lowlier hearts could feel. In the convent, clad in gray, 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, Not a name Remains to fame, From those mouldering days of old! But the poet's memory here Of the landscape makes a part; That ancient mill, In the Valley of the Vire. VICTOR GALBRAITH.79 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, Could not mistake the words it said: 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, Victor Galbraith Falls to the ground, but he is not dead; Victor Galbraith. Three balls are in his breast and brain, The water he drinks has a bloody stain; Victor Galbraith. Forth dart once more those tongues of flame, |