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."

1

Hesperides. This term is used in Greek mythology to refer to certain nymphs whose special care was the protection of the garden of Hera, located on an island in the western sea. It was the eleventh labor of Hercules to secure the golden apples in this garden and take them to Eurystheus.

THE SECRET OF THE SEA

HENRY W. LONGFELLOW

Ан! what pleasant visions haunt me
As I gaze upon the sea!
All the old romantic legends,

All my dreams, come back to me.

Sails of silk and ropes of sandal,
Such as gleam in ancient lore;
And the singing of the sailors,
And the answer from the shore!

Most of all, the Spanish ballad
Haunts me oft, and tarries long,

Of the noble Count Arnaldos
And the sailor's mystic song.

Like the long waves on a sea-beach,
Where the sand as silver shines,
With a soft, monotonous cadence,
Flow its unrhymed lyric lines:-

Telling how the Count Arnaldos,
With his hawk upon his hand,
Saw a fair and stately galley,
Steering onward to the land:-

How he heard the ancient helmsman
Chant a song so wild and clear,
That the sailing sea-bird slowly
Poised upon the mast to hear,

Till his soul was full of longing,
And he cried, with impulse strong,-
"Helmsman! for the love of heaven,

Teach me, too, that wondrous song!"

"Wouldst thou," so the helmsman answered, "Learn the secret of the sea? Only those who brave its dangers Comprehend its mystery!"

In each sail that skims the horizon,
In each landward-blowing breeze,

I behold that stately galley,

Hear those mournful melodies;

Till my soul is full of longing

For the secret of the sea,

And the heart of the great ocean
Sends a thrilling pulse through me.

THE ANGELS OF BUENA VISTA

JOHN GREENLEAF WHITTIER

During the Battle of Buena Vista, February 22–23, 1847, it is said that the Mexican women ministered to the soldiers of both armies impartially. This was before the days of the Red Cross Society which was founded as a result of the Geneva convention in 1864. The American Red Cross was not established, however, until 1881.

SPEAK and tell us, our Ximena, looking northward far away,

O'er the camp of the invaders, o'er the Mexican array, Who is losing? who is winning? are they far or come they near?

Look abroad, and tell us, sister, whither rolls the storm we hear.

"Down the hills of Angostura still the storm of battle rolls;

Blood is flowing, men are dying; God have mercy on their souls!"