Forth dart once more those tongues of flame,
And the bugler has died a death of shame,
      Victor Galbraith! 
His soul has gone back to whence it came,
And no one answers to the name,
      When the Sergeant saith,
      “Victor Galbraith!”

Under the walls of Monterey
By night a bugle is heard to play,
      Victor Galbraith! 
Through the mist of the valley damp and gray
The sentinels hear the sound, and say,
      “That is the wraith
      Of Victor Galbraith!”

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 Hersperides
  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 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.”