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EXCELSIOR.

The shades of night'were falling fast,
As through an Alpine village passed
A youth, who bore, 'mid snow and ice,
A banner with the strange device

Excelsior!

His brow was sad ; his eye beneath,
Flashed like a faulchion 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,

Excelsior!

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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,

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 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

ied, far up the height,
Excelsior!

At break of day, as heavenward
The pious monks of St. 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

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!

GOD'S-ACRE.

I LIKE that ancient Saxon phrase, which calls

The burial-ground God's-Acre! It is just; It consecrates each

grave within its walls, And breathes a benison o'er the sleeping dust.

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.

Into its furrows shall we all be cast,

In the sure faith, that we shall rise again
At the great harvest, when the arch-angel's blast

Shall winnow, like a fan, the chaff and grain.

Then shall the good stand in immortal bloom,

In the fair gardens of that second birth ; And each bright blossom, mingle its perfume

With that of flowers, which never bloomed on earth.

With thy rude ploughshare, Death, turn up the sod,

And spread the furrow for the seed we sow; This is the field and Acre of our God,

This is the place, where human harvests grow!

THE RAINY DAY.

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 cach life some rain must fall,

Some days must be dark and dreary.

Nathaniel Parker Wdillis.

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