Ho! brave hearts that went down in the seas!
Ye are at peace in the troubled stream;
Ho! brave land! with hearts like these
Thy flag, that is rent in twain,
Shall be one again,
And without a seam!
The shades of night were falling fast
As through an Alpine village pass'd
A youth who bore, 'mid snow and ice,
A banner with the strange device—
Excelsior!
His brow was sad, his eye beneath
Flash'd like a falchion from its sheath;
And like a silver clarion rung
The accents of that unknown tongue-
Excelsior!
In happy homes he saw the light
Of household fires gleam warm and bright;
Above, the spectral glaciers shone :
And from his lips escaped a groan—
"Try not the Pass!" the old man said;
"Dark lowers the tempest over-head,
The roaring torrent is deep and wide!"
And loud that clarion voice replied-
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,
At break of day, as heavenward
The pious monks of St. Bernard
Utter'd the oft-repeated prayer,
A voice cried through the startled air
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 grey,
Lifeless, but beautiful, he lay;
And from the sky, serene and far,
A voice fell like a falling star-
The day is cold and dark and dreary;
It rains, and the wind is never weary;
The vine still clings to the mouldering wall,
But at every gust the dead leaves fall:
And the day is dark and dreary.
My life is cold, and dark, and dreary;
It rains, and the wind is never weary;
My thoughts still cling to the mouldering past,
But the hopes of youth fall thick in the blast,
And the days are dark and dreary.
Be still, sad heart! and cease repining:
Behind the clouds is the sun still shining;
Thy fate is the common fate of all :
Into each life some rain must fall,
Some days must be dark and dreary.
Come to me, O ye children!
For I hear you at your play :
And the questions that perplex'd me
Have vanish'd quite away.
Ye open the Eastern windows
That look toward 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 brooklets 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 harden'd 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.
Come to me, O ye children!
And whisper in my ear
What the birds and the winds are singing
In your sunny atmosphere.
For what are all our contrivings,
And the wisdom of our books,
When compared with your caresses
And the gladness of your looks?
Ye are better than all the ballads
That ever were sung or said:
For ye are living poems,
And all the rest are dead.
JOHN GREENLEAF WHITTIER. 1807
IN SCHOOL-DAYS.
Still sits the school-house by the road,
A ragged beggar, sunning:
Around it still the sumachs grow,
And blackberry vines are running.
Within the master's desk is seen,
Deep-scarr'd by raps official;
The warping floor, the batter'd seats,
The jack-knife's carved initial;
The charcoal frescoes on its wall;
Its door's worn sill, betraying
The feet that, creeping slow to school,
Went storming out to playing.
Long years ago a winter sun
Shone over it at setting;
Lit up its Western window panes
And low eaves icy fretting.
It touch'd the tangled golden curls,
And brown eyes full of grieving,
Of One who still her steps delay'd
When all the school were leaving.
For near her stood the little boy
Her childish favour singled,
His cap pull'd low upon a face
Where pride and shame were mingled.
Pushing with restless feet the snow
To right and left, he linger'd,
As restlessly her tiny hands
The blue-check'd apron finger'd.
He saw her lift her eyes; he felt
The soft hand's light caressing;
And heard the tremble of her voice,
As if a fault confessing:
"I'm sorry that I spell'd the word;
I hate to go above you,
Because" (the brown eyes lower fell),
I love you."
66 Because, you see,
Still memory to a grey-hair'd man
That sweet child-face is showing:
Dear girl! the grasses on her grave
Have forty years been growing.
He lives to learn, in life's hard school,
How few who pass above him
Lament their triumph and his loss,
Like her, because they love him.
TELLING THE BEES.
Here is the place: right over the hill
Runs the path I took;
You can see the gap in the old wall still,
And the stepping-stones in the shallow brook.
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