"O stay!" the maiden said, "and rest "Beware the pine-tree's withered 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 A voice cried through the startled air, A traveller, by the faithful hound, There, in the twilight cold and grey, And from the sky, serene and far, A voice fell, like a falling star, Excelsior! Longfellow. SUNRISE ON THE HILLS. I stood upon the hills, when heaven's wide arch Was glorious with the sun's returning march, And woods were brightened, and soft gales Went forth to kiss the sun-clad vales. The clouds were far beneath me; bathed in light, They gathered mid-way round the wooded height, And, in their fading glory, shone Like hosts in battle overthrown, As many a pinnacle, with shifting glance, Through the grey mist thrust up its shattered lance, And rocking on the cliff was left The dark pine, blasted, bare, and cleft. Where upward, in the mellow blush of day, I heard the distant waters dash, I saw the current whirl and flash,— And richly, by the blue lake's silver beach, The music of the village bell Came sweetly to the echo-giving hills; And the wild horn, whose voice the woodland fills, Was ringing to the merry shout, That faint and far the glen sent out, Where, answering to the sudden shot, thin smoke, Through thick-leaved branches, from the dingle broke. If thou art worn and hard beset With sorrows, that thou wouldst forget, If thou wouldst read a lesson, that will keep Thy heart from fainting, and thy soul from sleep, Go to the woods and hills !-No tears Dim the sweet look that Nature wears. Longfellow. THE SLAVE IN THE DISMAL SWAMP. In dark fens of the Dismal Swamp He saw the fire of the midnight camp, Where will-o'-the wisps and glow-worms shine, In bulrush and in brake; Where waving mosses shroud the pine, And the cedar grows, and the poisonous vine Is spotted like the snake; Where hardly a human foot could pass, On the quaking turf of the green morass A poor old slave, infirm and lame ; Great scars deformed his face; On his forehead he bore the brand of shame, And the rags, that hid his mangled frame, Were the livery of disgrace. All things above were bright and fair, On him alone was the doom of pain, Longfellow. GOD'S ACRE. I like that ancient Saxon phrase, which calls God's Acre! Yes, that blessed name imparts Comfort to those, who in the grave have sown The seed, that they had garnered in their hearts, Their bread of life; alas! no more their own. |