And now I'm old, and going-I'm sure I can't tell where ; One comfort is, this world's so hard, I can't be worse off there: If I might but be a sea-dove, I'd fly across the main, To the pleasant Isle of Avès, to look at it once again. Ode to the Cuckoo. AIL, beauteous stranger of the grove! Now heaven repairs thy rural seat, And woods thy welcome sing. What time the daisy decks the green, Delightful visitant! with thee And hear the sound of music sweet The school-boy, wandering through the wood To pull the primrose gay, Starts, thy curious voice to hear, And imitates thy lay. What time the pea puts on the bloom, Thou fliest the vocal vale, An annual guest to other lands Sweet bird! thy bower is ever green, Thy sky is ever clear; Thou hast no sorrow in thy song, Oh, could I fly, I'd fly with thee! HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW. (An American Poet.) BORN 1807. 101 OTHER WRITINGS:- Voices of the Night; The Golden Legend; Evangeline; Hiawatha. -0 Excelsior. THE shades of night were falling fast, His brow was sad; his eye beneath The accents of that unknown tongue,- In happy homes he saw the light Of household fires gleam warm and bright; "Try not the pass ! the old man said, EXCELSIOR.-Higher, onward and upward. The roaring torrent is deep and wide!" "O, stay," the maiden said, "and rest "Beware the pine-tree's withered branch! This was the peasant's last good night; At break of day, as heavenward A voice cried through the startled air,— A traveller, by the faithful hound, Still grasping in his hand of ice That banner with the strange device, Excelsior! *ST. BERNARD.-A mountain pass between Switzerland and Savoy, where travellers are often overtaken by sudden storms, and the falling of snow and ice called Avalanches. There is a monastery there, and the monks have trained dogs to assist in rescuing distressed travellers. These dogs discover the traveller by their delicate scent, and then scratch away the snow and call for help. There, in the twilight cold and gray, And from the sky, serene and far, The Old Clock on the Stairs. OMEWHAT back from the village street Tall poplar-trees their shadows throw; Never-for ever!" Half way up the stairs it stands, And points and beckons with its hands, From its case of massive oak; Like a monk, who, under his cloak, Crosses himself, and sighs, alas! With sorrowful voice to all who pass, "For ever-never! Never-for ever!" |