His soul has gone back to whence it came, "Victor Galbraith!" Under the wall of Monterey By night a bugle is heard to play Through the mist of the valley damp and gray OFTEN I think of the beautiful town The pleasant streets of that dear old town, "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 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 voice of that wayward song "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 sun-rise gun, with its hollow roar, And the music of that old song "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,80 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. 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 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 schoolboy's brain; The song and the silence in the heart, 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 thoughts that make the strong heart weak, And a mist before the eye. And the words of that fatal song "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 When I visit the dear old town; But the native air is pure and sweet, And the trees that o'ershadow each well-known street, 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." And Deering's Woods are fresh and fair, My heart goes back to wander there, And among the dreams of the days that were And the strange and beautiful song, The groves are repeating it still : "A boy's will is the wind's will, And the thoughts of youth are long, long thoughts' THE ROPEWALK. In that building, long and low, Like the port-holes of a hulk, Human spiders spin and spin, At the end, an open door; As the spinners to the end Gleam the long threads in the sun; By the busy wheel are spun. Two fair maidens in a swing, First before my vision pass; Then a booth of mountebanks, And a weary look of care. Then a homestead among farms, Then an old man in a tower, While the rope coils round and round Like a serpent at his feet, And again, in swift retreat, Nearly lifts him from the ground. Then within a prison-yard, Faces fixed, and stern, and hard, Laughter and indecent mirth; Ah! it is the gallows-tree; Breath of Christian charity, Blow, and sweep it from the earth! |