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Under the walls of Monterey
At daybreak the bugles began to play,

Victor Galbraith!
In the mist of the morning damp and gray,
These were the words they seemed to say :

“ Come forth to thy death,
Victor Galbraith!”

Forth he came, with a martial tread ;
Firm was his step, erect his head ;

Victor Galbraith,
He who so well the bugle played,
Could not mistake the words it said:

“ Come forth to thy death,
Victor Galbraith!”

He looked at the earth, he looked at the sky, He looked at the files of musketry,

Victor Galbraith!

And he said, with a steady voice and eye,
“ Take good aim ; I am ready to die!”

Thus challenges death
Victor Galbraith.

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
Victor Galbraith,

Three balls are in his breast and brain,
But he rises out of the dust again,

Victor Galbraith!
The water he drinks has a bloody stain ;
“ O kill me, and put me out of my pain ! ”

In his agony prayeth
Victor Galbraith.

Forth dart once more those tongues of fame,
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 !”


Come to me, O ye children !

For I hear you at your play,
And the questions that perplexed me

Have vanished quite away.

Ye open the eastern windows,

That look towards the sun,
Where thoughts are singing swallows

And the brooks of morning run.

In your hearts are the birds and the sunshine,

In your thoughts the brooklet's flow; But in mine is the wind of Autumn

And the first fall of the snow.

Ah! what would the world be to us

If the children were no more?
We should dread the desert behind us

Worse than the dark before.

What the leaves are to the forest,

With light and air for food, Ere their sweet and tender juices

Have been hardened into wood,

That to the world are children ;

Through them it feels the glow Of a brighter and sunnier climate

Than reaches the trunks below.

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