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 neighborhoods.

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 school-boy'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,

And bring a pallor into the cheek,

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."

THE CHILDREN'S HOUR BETWEEN the dark and the daylight,

When the night is beginning to lower, Comes a pause in the day's occupations, That is known as the Children's Hour.

I hear in the chamber above me
The patter of little feet,
The sound of a door that is opened,
And voices soft and sweet.

From my study I see in the lamplight, Descending the broad hall stair, Grave Alice, and laughing Allegra, And Edith with golden hair.

A whisper, and then a silence:

Yet I know by their merry eyes
They are plotting and planning together
To take me by surprise.

A sudden rush from the stairway,
A sudden raid from the hall!
By three doors left unguarded
They enter my castle wall!

They climb up into my turret

O'er the arms and back of my chair;

Follow each other at your call, O Bells of Lynn!

The distant lighthouse hears, and with his flaming signal

Answers you, passing the watchword on, O Bells of Lynn !

And down the darkening coast run the tumultuous surges,

And clap their hands, and shout to you, O Bells of Lynn !

Till from the shuddering sea, with your wild incantations,

Ye summon up the spectral moon, O Bells of Lynn !

And startled at the sight, like the weird woman of Endor,

Ye cry aloud, and then are still, O Bells of Lynn !

CHAUCER

AN old man in a lodge within a park;
The chamber walls depicted all around
With portraitures of huntsman, hawk, and
hound,

And the hurt deer. He listeneth to the lark,

Whose song comes with the sunshine through the dark

Of painted glass in leaden lattice bound;
He listeneth and he laugheth at the sound,
Then writeth in a book like any clerk.
He is the poet of the dawn, who wrote
The Canterbury Tales, and his old age
Made beautiful with song; and as I read
I hear the crowing cock, I hear the note
Of lark and linnet, and from every page
Rise odors of ploughed field or flowery

mead.

MILTON

I PACE the sounding sea-beach and behold How the voluminous billows roll and run, Upheaving and subsiding, while the sun Shines through their sheeted emerald far unrolled,

And the ninth wave, slow gathering fold by fold

All its loose-flowing garments into one,
Plunges upon the shore, and floods the dua
Pale reach of sands, and changes them to
gold.

So in majestic cadence rise and fall
The mighty undulations of thy song,
O sightless bard, England's Mæonides!
And ever and anon, high over all
Uplifted, a ninth wave superb and strong
Floods all the soul with its melodious seas.

NATURE

As a fond mother, when the day is o'er,
Leads by the hand her little child to bed,
Half willing, half reluctant to be led,
And leave his broken playthings on the
floor,

Still gazing at them through the open door,
Nor wholly reassured and comforted
By promises of others in their stead,
Which, though more splendid, may not
please him more;

So Nature deals with us, and takes away
Our playthings one by one, and by the hand
Leads us to rest so gently, that we go
Scarce knowing if we wish to go or stay,
Being too full of sleep to understand
How far the unknown transcends the what
we know.

WAPENTAKE

TO ALFRED TENNYSON

POET! I come to touch thy lance with mine;

Not as a knight, who on the listed field
Of tourney touched his adversary's shield
In token of defiance, but in sign

Of homage to the mastery, which is thine,
In English song; nor will I keep concealed,
And voiceless as a rivulet frost-congealed,
My admiration for thy verse divine.
Not of the howling dervishes of song,
Who craze the brain with their delirious
dance,

Art thou, O sweet historian of the heart!
Therefore to thee the laurel-leaves belong,
To thee our love and our allegiance,
For thy allegiance to the poet's art.

A BALLAD OF THE FRENCH

FLEET

OCTOBER, 1746

MR. THOMAS PRINCE loquitur A FLEET with flags arrayed

Sailed from the port of Brest, And the Admiral's ship displayed The signal: "Steer southwest." For this Admiral D'Anville

Had sworn by cross and crown To ravage with fire and steel Our helpless Boston Town.

There were rumors in the street,

In the houses there was fear
Of the coming of the fleet,

And the danger hovering near.
And while from mouth to mouth
Spread the tidings of dismay,
I stood in the Old South,

Saying humbly: "Let us pray!

"O Lord! we would not advise; But if in thy Providence

A tempest should arise

To drive the French Fleet hence, And scatter it far and wide, Or sink it in the sea,

We should be satisfied,

And thine the glory be."

This was the prayer I made,

For my soul was all on flame, And even as I prayed

The answering tempest came; It came with a mighty power, Shaking the windows and walls, And tolling the bell in the tower, As it tolls at funerals.

The lightning suddenly

Unsheathed its flaming sword, And I cried: "Stand still, and see The salvation of the Lord!" The heavens were black with cloud, The sea was white with hail, And ever more fierce and loud Blew the October gale.

The fleet it overtook,

And the broad sails in the van Like the tents of Cushan shook, Or the curtains of Midian.

Down on the reeling decks
Crashed the o'erwhelming seas;
Ah, never were there wrecks
So pitiful as these!

Like a potter's vessel broke

The great ships of the line; They were carried away as a smoke, Or sank like lead in the brine. O Lord! before thy path

They vanished and ceased to be, When thou didst walk in wrath With thine horses through the sea!

JUGURTHA

How cold are thy baths, Apollo ! Cried the African monarch, the splen did,

As down to his death in the hollow

Dark dungeons of Rome he descended, Uncrowned, unthroned, unattended; How cold are thy baths, Apollo !

How cold are thy baths, Apollo !

Cried the Poet, unknown, unbefriended, As the vision, that lured him to follow, With the mist and the darkness blended, And the dream of his life was ended; How cold are thy baths, Apollo !

THE TIDE RISES, THE TIDE FALLS

THE tide rises, the tide falls,
The twilight darkens, the curlew calls;
Along the sea-sands damp and brown
The traveller hastens toward the town,
And the tide rises, the tide falls.

Darkness settles on roofs and walls,
But the sea, the sea in the darkness calls;
The little waves, with their soft, white
hands,

Efface the footprints in the sands,

And the tide rises, the tide falls.

The morning breaks; the steeds in their stalls

Stamp and neigh, as the hostler calls;
The day returns, but nevermore
Returns the traveller to the shore,

And the tide rises, the tide falls.

HER ways were gentle while a babe,
With calm and tranquil eye,
That turned instinctively to seek
The blueness of the sky.

A holy smile was on her lip

Whenever sleep was there;

She slept, as sleeps the blossom, hushed Amid the silent air.

And ere she left with tottling steps

The low-roofed cottage door,
The beetle and the cricket loved
The young child on the floor;
For every insect dwelt secure
Where little Eva played,
And piped for her its blithest song
When she in greenwood strayed.
With wing of gauze and mailëd coat
They gathered round her feet,
Rejoiced, as are all gladsome things,
A truthful soul to greet.
They taught her infant lips to sing
With them a hymn of praise,
The song that in the woods is heard,
Through the long summer days.

And everywhere the child was traced
By snatches of wild song
That marked her feet along the vale
Or hillside, fleet and strong.
She knew the haunts of every bird
Where bloomed the sheltered flower,
So sheltered that the searching frost
Might scarcely find its bower.

No loneliness young Eva knew,
Though playmates she had none:
Such sweet companionship was hers,
She could not be alone;
For everything in earth or sky
Caressed the little child,

The joyous bird upon the wing,

The blossom in the wild.

Much dwelt she on the green hill-side,
And under forest tree;

Beside the running, babbling brook,
Where lithe trout sported free.
She saw them dart, like stringëd gems,
Where the tangled roots were deep,
And learned that love forevermore
The heart will joyful keep.

She loved all simple flowers that spring
In grove or sunlit dell,
And of each streak and varied hue
Would pretty meanings tell.
For her a language was impressed
On every leaf that grew,
And lines revealing brighter worlds
That seraph fingers drew.

The opening bud that lightly swung
Upon the dewy air,
Moved in its very sportiveness
Beneath angelic care;

She saw that pearly fingers oped
Each curved and painted leaf,
And where the canker-worm had been
Were looks of angel grief.

Each tiny leaf became a scroll
Inscribed with holy truth,