140

EXCELSIOR.

"O stay," the maiden said, "and rest
Thy weary head upon this breast!"

A tear stood in his bright blue

eye,

But still he answer'd with a sigh,

Excelsior!

"Beware the pine-tree's wither'd branch!
Beware the awful avalanche !"

This was the peasant's last good-night;
A voice replied, far up the height,
Excelsior!

At break of day, as heavenward
The pious monks of Saint Bernard
Utter'd the oft-repeated prayer,
A voice cried through the startled air,
Excelsior!

A traveler, by the faithful hound,
Half-buried in the snow was found,

Still grasping in his hand of ice
That banner with the strange device,
Excelsior!

There, in the twilight cold and gray,
Lifeless, but beautiful, he lay,

And from the sky, serene and far,
A voice fell, like a falling star!

Excelsior!

THE EXILE AT REST.

BY JOHN PIERPONT.

His falchion flash'd along the Nile;
His hosts he led through Alpine snows;
O'er Moscow's towers, that shook the while,
His eagle flag unroll'd-and froze.

Here sleeps he now alone: not one

Of all the kings whose crowns he gave, Nor sire, nor brother, wife, nor son,

Hath ever seen or sought his

grave.

Here sleeps he now alone: the star

That led him on from crown to crown

Hath sunk; the nations from afar

Gazed as it faded and went down.

He sleeps alone: the mountain cloud

That night hangs round him, and the breath

Of morning scatters, is the shroud

That wraps his martial form in death.

High is his couch: the ocean flood
Far, far below by storms is curl'd,
As round him heaved, while high he stood,
A stormy and inconstant world.

Hark! Comes there from the Pyramids,

And from Siberia's wastes of snow,

And Europe's fields, a voice that bids

The world he awed to mourn him? No:

The only, the perpetual dirge

That's heard there is the sea-bird's cry,

The mournful murmur of the surge,

The cloud's deep voice, the wind's low sigh.

THE DYING RAVEN.

BY R. H. DANA.

COME to these lonely woods to die alone? It seems not many days since thou wast heard, From out the mists of spring, with thy shrill note, Calling upon thy mates-and their clear answers. The earth was brown, then; and the infant leaves Had not put forth to warm them in the sun, Or play in the fresh air of heaven. Thy voice, Shouting in triumph, told of winter gone,

And prophesying life to the seal'd ground,

Did make me glad with thoughts of coming beauties.
And now they're all around us;—offspring bright
Of earth-a mother, who, with constant care,
Doth feed and clothe them all.—Now o'er her fields,
In blessed bands, or single, they are gone,

Or by her brooks they stand, and sip the stream;
Or peering o'er it-vanity well feign'd—
In quaint approval seem to glow and nod
At their reflected graces. Morn to meet,
They in fantastic labours pass the night,
Catching its dews, and rounding silvery drops
To deck their bosoms. There, on high, bald trees,
From varnish'd cells some peep, and the old boughs
Make to rejoice and dance in warmer winds.
Over my head the winds and they make music;
And, grateful, in return for what they take,

Bright hues and odours to the air they give.
Thus mutual love brings mutual delight-

Brings beauty, life;-for love is life;-hate, death.

143

THE DYING RAVEN.

Thou Prophet of so fair a revelation— Thou who abodest with us the winter long, Enduring cold or rain, and shaking oft,

From thy dark mantle, falling sleet or snow

Thou, who with purpose kind, when warmer days
Shone on the earth, mid thaw and steam, camest forth
From rocky nook, or wood, thy priestly cell,
To speak of comfort unto lonely man—
Didst say to him-though seemingly alone
Mid wastes and snows, and silent, lifeless trees,
Or the more silent ground-it was not death,
But nature's sleep and rest, her kind repair;
That Thou, albeit unseen, didst bear with him
The winter's night, and, patient of the day,
And cheer'd by hope, (instinct divine in Thee,)
Waitedst return of summer.

More thou saidst,

Thou Priest of Nature, Priest of God, to man!
Thou spokest of faith (than instinct no less sure),
Of spirits near him though he saw them not:
Thou badest him ope his intellectual eye,

And see his solitude all populous:

Thou show'dst him Paradise, and deathless flowers;

And didst him pray to listen to the flow

Of living waters.

Preacher to man's spirit!

Emblem of Hope!

Companion! Comforter!

Thou faithful one! is this thine end? 'Twas thou,
When summer birds were gone, and no form seen
In the void air, who camest, living and strong,
On thy broad, balanced pennons, through the winds.
And of thy long enduring, this the close!
Thy kingly strength, thou conqueror of storms,
Thus low brought down.

144

THE DYING RAVEN.

The year's mild, cheering dawn

Upon thee shone a momentary light.
The gales of spring upbore thee for a day,
And then forsook thee. Thou art fallen now;
And liest among thy hopes and promises-
Beautiful flowers, and freshly-springing blades,
Gasping thy life out. Here for thee the grass
Tenderly makes a bed; and the young buds
In silence open their fair, painted folds—
To ease thy pain, the one-to cheer thee, these.
But thou art restless: and thy once keen eye
Is dull and sightless now. New blooming boughs,
Needlessly kind, have spread a tent for thee.
Thy mate is calling to the white, piled clouds,
And asks for thee. They answer give no back.
As I look up to their bright, angel faces,
Intelligent and capable of voice

They seem to me.

Comes ominous.

Silence or sound.

Their silence to my soul

The same to thee, doom'd bird,

For thee there is no sound,

No silence.-Near thee stands the shadow, Death ;-
And now he slowly draws his sable veil

Over thine eyes; thy senses softly lulls
Into unconscious slumbers. The airy call

Thou'lt hear no longer; 'neath sun-lighted clouds,
With beating wing, or steady poise aslant,
Wilt sail no more. Around thy trembling claws
Droop thy wings' parting feathers. Spasms of death

Are on thee.

Laid thus low by age? Or is 't All-grudging man has brought thee to this end? Perhaps the slender hair, so subtly wound Around the grain God gives thee for thy food,

Has proved thy snare, and makes thine inward pain.