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 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. 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, Drove o'er the sea-that desert desolate- 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, And yet unshaken as the continent. For in the background figures vague and vast And thus for ever with reverted look But ah! what once has been shall be no more! OLIVER BASSELIN. IN the Valley of the Vire These words alone: "Oliver Basselin lived here." Far above it, on the steep, Ruined stands the old Chateau; 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, To the water's dash and din, 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, Another clang, Songs that lowlier hearts could feel. In the convent, clad in gray, Found other chimes, Nearer to the earth than they. Gone are all the barons bold, Gone are all the knights and squires, And the brotherhood of friars; 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. UNDER the walls of Monterey In the mist of the morning damp and gray, Forth he came, with a martial tread; He who so well the bugle played, Victor Galbraith!" He looked at the earth, he looked at the sky, He looked at the files of musketry, Victor Gilbraith! 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, 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 Through the mist of the valley damp and gray "That is the wraith 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." I can see the shadowy lines of its trees, |