The trees are white with dust, that o'er their sleep And these sepulchral stones, so old and brown, The very names recorded here are strange, With Abraham and Jacob of old times. "Blessed be God! for he created Death!" The mourner 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, Gone are the living, but the dead remain, Still keeps their graves and their remembrance green. How came they here? What burst of Christian hate, 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; Trampled and beaten were they as the sand, And yet unshaken as the continent. For in the background figures vague and vast 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! VICTOR GALBRAITH. UNDER the walls of Monterey At daybreak the bugles began to play, In the mist of the morning damp and grey, 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, Victor Galbraith! And he said, with a steady voice and eye, 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, His soul has gone back to whence it came, "Victor Galbraith!" Under the walls of Monterey Victor Galbraith Through the mist of the valley damp and grey "That is the wraith Of Victor Galbraith!" MY LOST YOUTH. OFTEN I think of the beautiful town The pleasant streets of that dear old town, And the thoughts of youth are long, long thoughts." The sheen of the far-surrounding seas, And the burden of that old song, And the thoughts of youth are long, long thoughts." I remember the black wharves and the slips, And Spanish sailors with bearded lips, 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, 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, How it thundered o'er the tide! And the dead captains, as they lay In their graves o'erlooking the tranquil bay, 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, 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 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 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 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, And with joy that is almost pain My heart goes back to wander there, And among the dreams of the days that were, I find my lost youth again. 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.” |