For in the background figures vague and vast They saw reflected in the coming time. The mystic volume of the world they read, OLIVER BASSELIN. [Oliver Basselin, the “Père joyeux du Vaudeville," flourished in the fifteenth century, and gave to his convivial songs the name of his native valleys, in which he sang them, Vaux-de-Vire. This name was afterwards corrupted into the modern Vaudeville.] IN the Valley of the Vire Still is seen an ancient mill, These words alone: "Oliver Basselin lived here." Far above it, on the steep, Ruined stands the old Château; Left for shelter or for show. Stare at the skies, Stare at the valley green and deep. Once a convent, old and brown, Whose sunny gleam Cheers the little Norman town. 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 That in those days Sang the poet Basselin. In the castle, cased in steel, Knights, who fought at Agincourt, Songs that lowlier hearts could feel. 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, From those mouldering days of old! But the poet's memory here Of the landscape makes a part; Like the river, swift and clear, Flows his song through many a heart; That ancient mill, In the Valley of the Vire. THE DISCOVERER OF THE NORTH CAPE. A LEAF FROM KING ALFRED's orosius. OTHERE, the old sea-captain, Who dwelt in Helgoland, To King Alfred, the Lover of Truth, His figure was tall and stately, His cheek had the colour of oak; As unto the King he spoke. And Alfred, King of the Saxons, "So far I live to the northward, To the east are wild mountain-chains, "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 sail. "I own six hundred reindeer, "I ploughed the land with horses, With their sagas of the seas: "Of Iceland and of Greenland, For thinking of those seas. "To the northward stretched the desert, "To the west of me was the ocean, Till after three days more. "The days grew longer and longer, And southward through the haze Of the red midnight sun. "And then uprose before me, But onward still I sailed. "Four days I steered to eastward, Four days without a night: Went the great sun, O King Here Alfred, King of the Saxons, 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! In two days and no more And dragged them to the strand!" And Othere, the old sea-captain, In witness of the truth, Raising his noble head, He stretched his brown hand, and said, 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."] UNDER the walls of Monterey At daybreak the bugles began to play, In the mist of the morning damp and gray, Victor Galbraith!" Forth he came, with a martial tread: He who so well the bugle played, "Come forth to thy death, Victor Galbraith!" He looked at the earth, he looked at the sky, Victor Galbraith! And he said, with a steady voice and eye, Thus challenges death Victor Galbraith. |