O TAN-FACED PRAIRIE-BOY

O TAN-FACED prairie-boy!

Before you came to camp, came many a welcome gift; Praises and presents came, and nourishing food-till at last among the recruits,

You came, taciturn, with nothing to give-we but look'd on each other,

When lo! more than all the gifts of the world, you gave me.

WALT WHITMAN

AS TOILSOME I WANDER'D VIRGINIA'S

WOODS

As toilsome I wander'd Virginia's woods,

To the music of rustling leaves, kick'd by my feet, (for 'twas autumn,)

I mark'd at the foot of a tree the grave of a soldier; Mortally wounded he, and buried on the retreat, (easily all I could understand;)

The halt of a mid-day hour, when up! no time to loseyet this sign left,

On a tablet scrawl'd and nail'd on the tree by the grave, Bold, cautious, true, and my loving comrade.

Long, long, I muse, then on my way go wandering; Many a changeful season to follow, and many a scene of life;

Yet at times through changeful season and scene, abrupt, alone, or in the crowded street,

Comes before me the unknown soldier's grave-comes the inscription rude in Virginia's woods,

Bold, cautious, true, and my loving comrade.

WALT WHITMAN

THE JACOBITE ON TOWER HILL

HE tripped up the steps with a bow and a smile,
Offering snuff to the chaplain the while,

A rose at his button-hole that afternoon

'Twas the tenth of the month, and the month it was June.

Then shrugging his shoulders he looked at the man With the mask and the ax, and a murmuring ran Through the crowd, who, below were all pushing to sec The jailer kneel down and receiving his fee.

He looked at the mob, as they roar'd, with a stare,
And took snuff again with a cynical air.
'I'm happy to give but a moment's delight,
To the flower of my country agog for a sight.'

Then he looked at the block, and with scented cravat,
Dusted room for his neck, gaily doffing his hat,
Kissed his hand to a lady, bent low to the crowd,
Then smiling, turn'd round to the headsman and bow'd.

'God save King James!' he cried bravely and shrill, And the cry reached the houses at foot of the hill, 'My friend, with the ax, a votre service,' he said, And ran his white thumb 'long the edge of the blade.

When the multitude hiss'd he stood firm as a rock, Then kneeling, laid down his gay head on the block; He kissed a white rose,-in a moment 'twas red, With the life of the bravest of any that bled.

GEORGE WALTER THORNBURY

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 comes 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:
'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 sea 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 the 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.'