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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
Of patriarchs and of prophets rose sublime, And all the great traditions of the Past
They saw reflected in the coming time.
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!
The groaning earth in travail and in pain Brings forth its races, but does not restore,
And the dead nations never rise again.
UNDER the walls of Monterey
“Come forth to thy death,
Forth he came, with a martial tread;
“Come forth to thy death,
He looked at the earth, he looked at the sky,
Thus challenges death
Twelve fiery tongues flashed straight and red,
And they only scath
Three balls are in his breast and brain,
In his agony prayeth
Forth dart once more those tongues of flame,
When the Sergeant saith,
Under the walls of Monterey
“ That is the wraith
DAYLIGHT AND MOONLIGHT.
IN broad daylight, and at noon,
And the night, serene and still,
And the Poet's song again
MY LOST YOUTH.
That is seated by the sea;
And a verse of a Lapland song
Is haunting my memory still:
And catch, in sudden gleams,
And the burden of that old song,
It murmurs and whispers still :
And the sea-tides tossing free;
And the voice of that wayward song
Is singing and saying still :
And the fort upon the bill;
And the music of that old song
Throbs in my memory still:
How it thundered o'er the tide!
And the sound of that mournful song
Goes throngh 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 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;
And the voice of that fitful song
Sings on, and is never still: “A boy'a 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;
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;
Are singing the beautiful song,
Are sighing and whispering still:
And with joy that is almost pain
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."
In that building, long and low, | As the bucket mounts apace,
| With it mounts her own fair face, Like the port-holes of a hulk,
As at some magician's spell.
Then an old man in a tower,
Ringing loud the noontide hour, Dropping, each a hempen bulk.
| While the rope coils round and round, At the end, an open door;
Like a serpent at his feet, Squares of sunshine on the floor And again, in swift retreat,
Light the long and dusky lane ; Nearly lifts him from the ground. And the whirring of a wheel,
Then within a prison-yard, Dull and drowsy, makes me feel
Faces fixed, and stern, and bard, All its spokes are in my brain.
Laughter and indecent mirth; As the spinners to the end
Ah! it is the gallows-tree;
Breath of Christian charity,
Blow, and sweep it from the earth! While within this brain of mine Then a 'schoolboy, with his kite Cobwebs brighter and more fine
Gleaming in a sky of light, By the busy wheel are spun.
And an eager, upward look ; Two fair maidens in a swing,
Steeds pursued through lane and field;
Fowlers with their snares concealed;
And an angler by a brook.
Anchors dragged through faithless
sand; Then a booth of mountebanks, Sea-fog drifting overhead, With its smell of tan and planks,
| And, with lessening line and lead, And a girl poised high in air
Sailors feeling for the land.
| All these scenes do I behold, And a weary look of care.
These, and many left untold,
| In that building long and low; Then a homestead among farms, While the wheel goes round and round, And a woman with bare arms
With a drowsy, dreamy sound, Drawing water from a well ;
And the spinners backward go.
THE GOLDEN MILESTONE.
LEAFLESS are the trees; their purple branches