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Try not the Pass !" the old man said ; “Dark lowers the tempest overhead,

The roaring torrent is deep and wide !” And loud that clarion voice replied,

“O stay,” the maiden said, “and rest

Thy weary head upon this breast !”
A tear stood in his bright blue eye,
But still he answered, with a sigh,

Excelsior! “ 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,

At break of day, as heavenward
The pious monks of Saint Bernard
Uttered the oft-repeated prayer,
A voice cried through the startled air,

Excelsior !
A traveller, by the faithful hound,
Half-buried in the snow was found,
Still grasping in his hand of ice
That banner with the strange device-

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 !-- Longfellow.


I stood on the bridge at midnight,

As the clocks were striking the hour, And the moon rose o'er the city,

Behind the dark church-tower.


I saw her bright reflection

In the waters under me, Like a golden goblet falling

And sinking into the sea. And far in the hazy distance

Of that lovely night in June, The blaze of the flaming furnace

Gleamed redder than the moon. Among the long, black rafters

The wavering shadows lay, And the current that came from the ocean

Seemed to lift and bear them away ; As, sweeping and eddying through them,

Rose the belated tide,
And, streaming into the moonlight,

The sea-weed floated wide.
And like those waters rushing

Among the wooden piers,
A flood of thoughts came o'er me

That filled my eyes with tears.
How often, O how often,

In the days that had gone by,
I had stood on that bridge at midnight

And gazed on that wave and sky!
How often, o, how often,

I had wished that the ebbing tido Would bear me away on its bosom

O’er the ocean wild and wide !

heart was hot and restless,

life was full of care, And the burden laid upon me

Seemed greater than I could bear. But now it has fallen from me,

It is buried in the sea; And only the sorrow of others

Throws its shadow over me.

Yet whenever I cross the river

On its bridge with wooden piers, Like the odour of brine from the ocean

Comes the thought of other years. And I think how


thousands Of care-encumbered men, Each bearing his burden of sorrow,

Have crossed the bridge since then.
I see the long procession

Still passing to and fro,
The young heart hot and restless,

And the old subdued and slow!
And forever and forever,

As long as the river flows,
As long as the heart has passions,

As long as life has woes ;
The moon and its broken reflection

And its shadows shall appear,
As the symbol of love in heaven,

And its wavering image here.—Longfellow.


PLEASANT it was, when woods were green,

And winds were soft and low,
To lie amid some sylv scene,
Where, the long drooping boughs between,
Shadows dark and sunlight sheen

Alternate come and go;
Or where the denser grove receives

No sunlight from above,
But the dark foliage interweaves
In one unbroken roof of leaves,
Underneath whose sloping eaves

The shadows hardly move.
Beneath some patriarchal tree

I lay upon the ground; His hoary arms uplifted he,

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And all the broad leaves over me
Clapped their little hands in glee,

With one continuous sound :-
A slumberous sound,—a sound that brings

The feelings of a dream,-
As of innumerable wings,
As, when a bell no longer swings,
Faint the hollow murmur rings

O’er meadow, lake, and stream.
And dreams of that which cannot die,

Bright visions, came to me,
As lapped in thought I used to lie,
And gaze into the summer sky,
Where the sailing clouds went by,

Like ships upon the sea ;
Dreams that the soul of youth engage

Ere Fancy has been quell'd ;
Old legends of the monkish page,
Traditions of the saint and sage,
Tales that have the rime of

age, And chronicles of Eld. And, loving still these quaint old themes,

Even in the city's throng
I feel the freshness of the streams,
That, crossed by shades and sunny gleams,
Water the green land of dreams,

The holy land of song.
Therefore, at Pentecost, which brings

The spring, clothed like a bride,
When nestling buds unfold their wings,
And bishop's-caps have golden rings,
Musing upon many things,

I sought the woodlands wide.
The green trees whispered low and mild;

It was a sound of joy !
They were my playmates when a child
And rocked me in their arms so wild !
Still they looked at me and smiled,

As if I were a boy ;

And ever whispered, mild and low,

“ Come, be a child once more !”
And waved their long arms to and fro,
And beckoned solemnly and slow;
Oh, I could not choose but go

Into the woodlands hoar;
Into the blithe and breathing air,

Into the solemn wood,
Solemn and silent everywhere !
Nature with folded hands seemed there,
Kneeling at her evening prayer !
Like one


prayer I stood. Before me rose an avenue

Of tall and sombrous pines ; Abroad their fan-like branches grew, And, where the sunshine darted through, Spread a vapour soft and blue,

In long and sloping lines.
And, falling on my weary brain,

Like a fast-falling shower,
The dreams of youth came back again,
Low lispings of the summer rain,
Dropping on the ripened grain,

As once upon the flower.
Visions of childhood ! Stay, oh stay!

Ye were so sweet and wild !
And distant voices seemed to say,
“ It cannot be! They pass away!
Other themes demand thy lay ;

Thou art no more a child !
“ The land of Song within thee lies,

Watered by living springs;
The lids of Fancy's sleepless eyes
Are gates unto that Paradise,
Holy thoughts, like stars, arise,

Its clouds are angels' wings.
Learn, that henceforth thy song shall be,

Not mountains capped with snow, Nor forests sounding like the sea,

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