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; Were not songs of that high art, Which, as winds do in the pine, Find an answer in each heart; But the mirth Of this green earth Laughed and revelled in his line. From the alehouse and the inn, 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; 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; Haunting still That ancient mill, In the Valley of the Vire. Forth he came, with a martial tread ; He who so well the bugle played, He looked at the earth, he looked at the sky, He looked at the files of musketry, And he said, with a steady voice and eye, 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 |