town,

Silent beside the never-silent waves, At rest in all this moving up and down! The trees are white with dust, that o'er their sleep

Wave their broad curtains in the south wind's breath,

While underneath such leafy tents they keep

The long mysterious Exodus of
Death.

And these sepulchral stones, so old and brown,

That pave with level flags their burial-place,

Seem like the tablets of the Law, thrown down

And broken by Moses at the mountain's base.

The very names recorded here are

OLIVER BASSELIN.*

IN the Valley of the Vire

Still is seen an ancient mill,
With its gables quaint and queer,
And beneath the window-sill,
On the stone,

These words alone:
"Oliver Basselin lived here."
Far above it, on the steep,
Ruined stands the old Château;
Nothing but the donjon-keep
Left for shelter or for show.
Its vacant eyes

Stare at the skies,

Stare at the valley green and deep. Once a convent, old and brown,

Looked, but ah! it looks no more, From the neighbouring hillside down On the rushing and the roar Of the stream Whose sunny gleam Cheers the little Norman town. In that darksome mill of stone, To the water's dash and din, Careless, humble, and unknown, Sang the poet Basselin Songs that fill

That ancient mill

With a splendour of its own.

From the alehouse and the inn,
Opening on the narrow street,
Came the loud convivial din,
Singing and applause of feet,
The laughing lays
That in those days
Sang the poet Basselin.

In the castle, cased in steel,
Knights, who fought at Agincourt,
Watched and waited, spur on heel;
But the poet sang for sport
Songs that rang
Another clang,

Songs that lowlier hearts could feel.
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,

Hearty and hale was Othere,

His cheek had the colour of oak;
With a kind of laugh in his speech,
Like the sea-tide on a beach,

As unto the King he spoke.
And Alfred, King of the Saxons,
Had a book upon his knees,
And wrote down the wondrous tale
Of him who was first to sail
Into the Arctic seas.

"So far I live to the northward,
No man lives north of me;

To the east are wild mountain-chains,
And beyond them meres and plains;
To the westward all is sea.
"So far I live to the northward,
From the harbour of Skeringes-hale,
If you only sailed by day,
With a fair wind all the way,
More than a month would'

you

"I own six hundred reindeer,
With sheep and swine beside;
I have tribute from the Finns,
Whalebone and rein-deer skins,
And ropes of walrus-hide.
"I ploughed the land with horses,
But my heart was ill at ease,
For the old seafaring men
Came to ine now and then,
With their sagas of the seas;-
"Of Iceland and of Greenland,
And the stormy Hebrides,
And the undiscovered deep;-
I could not eat nor sleep

For thinking of those seas.

sail.

"To the northward stretched the desert,
How far I fain would know;
So at last I sallied forth,
And three days sailed due north,
As far as the whale-ships go.

"To the west of me was the ocean,
To the right the desolate shore,

But I did not slacken sail
For the walrus or the whale,
Till after three days more.

"The days grew longer and longer,
Till they became as one,
And southward through the haze
I saw the sullen blaze

Of the red midnight sun.

"And then uprose before nie,

Upon the water's edge, The huge and haggard shape Of that unknown North Cape, Whose form is like a wedge. "The sea was rough and stormy,

The tempest howled and wailed, And the sea-fog, like a ghost, Haunted that dreary coast,

But onward still I sailed.

"Four days I steered to eastward,
Four days without a night:
Round in a fiery ring
Went the great sun, O King,
With red and lurid light.'

Here Alfred, King of the Saxons,
Ceased writing for a while;
And raised his eyes from his book,
With a strange and puzzled look,
And an incredulous smile.
But Othere, the old sea-captain,

He neither paused nor stirred,
Till the King listened, and then
Once more took up his pen,

And wrote down every word. "And now the land," said Othere, "Bent southward suddenly, And I followed the curving shore, And ever southward bore

Into a nameless sea.

"And there we hunted the walrus, The narwhale, and the seal; Ha! 'twas a noble game! And like the lightning's flame Flew our harpoons of steel. "There were six of us altogether, Norsemen of Helgoland;

In two days and no more
We killed of them threescore,
And dragged them to the strand!"
Here Alfred, the Truth-Teller,
Suddenly closed his book,
And lifted his blue eyes,
With doubt and strange surmise
Depicted in their look.

And Othere, the old sea-captain,

Stared at him wild and weird, Then smiled, till his shining teeth Gleamed white from underneath His tawny, quivering beard.

And to the King of the Saxons,

In witness of the truth,

Raising his noble head,

He stretched his brown hand, and said, "Behold this walrus-tooth!"

VICTOR GALBRAITH.* UNDER the walls of Monterey At daybreak the bugles began to play, Victor Galbraith!

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;
Firm was his step, erect his head;
Victor Galbraith,

He who so well the bugle played,
Could not mistake the words it said:
"Come forth to thy death,
Victor Galbraith!'

He looked at the earth, he looked at the sky,

He looked at the files of musketry,
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,

Six leaden balls on their errand sped; Victor Galbraith

Falls to the ground, but he is not dead; His name was not stamped on those balls of lead,

And they only scath
Victor Galbraith.

* This poem is founded on fact. Victor Galbraith was a bugler in a company of volunteer cavalry, and was shot in Mexico for some breach of discipline. It is a common superstition among soldiers that no balls will kill them unless their names are written on them. The old proverb says, "Every bullet has its billet."

CHILDREN.

COME to me, O ye children!
For I hear you at your play,
And the questions that perplexed me
Have vanished quite away.

Ye open the eastern windows,
That look towards the sun,
Where thoughts are singing swallows,
And the brooks of morning run.
In your hearts are the birds and the
sunshine,

In your thoughts the brooklet's flow;
But in mine is the wind of Autumu,
And the first fall of the snow.
Ah! what would the world be to us,
If the children were no more?
We should dread the desert behind us
Worse than the dark before.
What the leaves are to the forest,

With light and air for food,
Ere their sweet and tender juices
Have been hardened into wood,-
That to the world are children;

Through them it feels the glow
Of a brighter and sunnier climate
Than reaches the trunks below.

MY LOST YOUTH.

OFTEN I think of the beautiful town
That is seated by the sea;
Often in thought go up and down
The pleasant streets of that dear old
town,

And my youth cames back to me. And a verse of a Lapland song Is haunting my memory still: "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 catch, in sudden gleams,
The sheen of the far-surrounding seas,
And islands that were the Hesperides
Of all my boyish dreams.

And the burden of that old song, It murmurs and whispers still: 66 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 fort upon the hill;

The sunrise gun, with its hollow roar, The drum-beat repeated o'er and o'er,

And the bugle wild and shrill. 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, *
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

Come back with a sabbath sound, as of doves

In quiet neighbourhoods.

And the verse of that sweet old

Across the schoolboy'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 heart weak,

*This was the engagement between the Enterprise and Boxer, off the harbour of Portland, in which both captains were slain. They were buried side by side, in the cemetery on Mountjoy.