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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!

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!

"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
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!

H. W. LONGFELLOW.

48.-FREEDOM.

Of old sat Freedom on the heights,
The thunders breaking at her feet;
Above her shook the starry lights,

She heard the torrents meet.

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Grave mother of majestic works,
From her isle-altar gazing down,

Who, God-like, grasps the triple forks,
And, King-like, wears the crown.

Her open eyes desire the truth.
The wisdom of a thousand years
Is in them. May perpetual youth

Keep dry their light from tears.

That her fair form may stand and shine,
Make bright our days and light our dreams,

Turning to scorn with lips divine

The falsehood of extremes.

TENNYSON.

49. THE VILLAGE PREACHER.

NEAR yonder copse, where once the garden smiled,
And, still, where many a garden flower grows wild;
There, where a few torn shrubs the place disclose,
The village preacher's modest mansion rose.
A man he was to all the country dear,
And passing rich-with forty pounds a-year.
Remote from towns he ran his godly race;

Nor e'er had changed, nor wished to change, his place.
Unskilful he to fawn or seek for power,

By doctrines fashioned to the varying hour:
Far other aims his heart had learned to prize,
More bent to raise the wretched than to rise.

His house was known to all the vagrant train
He chid their wanderings, but relieved their pain.
The long-remembered beggar was his guest,
Whose beard descending swept his aged breast;

!

The ruined spendthrift, now no longer proud,
Claimed kindred there, and had his claim allowed:
The broken soldier, kindly bid to stay,

Sat by his fire, and talked the night away;

Wept o'er his wounds, or, tales of sorrow done,

Shouldered his crutch, and showed how fields were won.
Pleased with his guests, the good man learned to glow,
And quite forgot their vices in their woe;
Careless their merits or their faults to scan,

His pity gave ere charity began.

Thus to relieve the wretched was his pride;
And even his failings leaned to virtue's side;
But, in his duty prompt, at every call,
He watched and wept, he prayed and felt for all.
And, as a bird each fond endearment tries,
To tempt her new-fledged offspring to the skies,
He tried each art, reproved each dull delay,
Allured to brighter worlds, and led the way.
Beside the bed, where parting life was laid,
And sorrow, guilt, and pain by turns dismayed,
The reverend champion stood. At his control,
Despair and anguish fled the struggling soul:
Comfort came down the trembling wretch to raise,
And his last faltering accents whispered praise.

At church, with meek and unaffected grace,
His looks adorned the venerable place;
Truth from his lips prevailed with double sway,
And fools, who came to scoff, remained to pray.
The service past, around the pious man,
With ready zeal each honest rustic ran;
Even children followed with endearing wile,

And plucked his gown to share the good man's smile.
His ready smile a parent's warmth expressed,
Their welfare pleased him, and their cares distressed:
To them his heart, his love, his griefs were given;
But all his serious thoughts had rest in heaven.
As some tall cliff that lifts its awful form,

Swells from the vale and midway leaves the storm,
Though round its breast the rolling clouds are spread,
Eternal sunshine settles on its head.

GOLDSMITH.

50.--THE BEAUTIFUL, BUT STILL AND MELANCHOLY ASPECT OF

THE ONCE BUSY AND GLORIOUS SHORES OF GREECE.

HE who hath bent him o'er the dead,

Ere the first day of death is fled;
The first dark day of nothingness,

The last of danger and distress;
(Before Decay's effacing fingers

Have swept the lines where Beauty lingers),
And marked the mild angelic air-

The rapture of repose that's there

The fixed yet tender traits that streak
The languor of the placid cheek,
And-but for that sad shrouded eye,

That fires not-wins not-weeps not-now—
And but for that chill changeless brow,
Whose touch thrills with mortality,
And curdles to the gazer's heart,
As if to him it could impart

The doom he dreads, yet dwells upon-
Yes-but for these and these alone,
Some moments-ay-one treacherous hour,
He still might doubt the tyrant's power,
So fair-so calm-so softly sealed
The first-last look-by death revealed!
Such is the aspect of this shore-
'Tis Greece-but living Greece no more!
So coldly sweet, so deadly fair,
We start-for soul is wanting there.
Hers is the loveliness in death,

That parts not quite with parting breath;

But beauty, with that fearful bloom,
That hue which haunts it to the tomb-

Expression's last receding ray,

A gilded halo hovering round decay,
The farewell beam of feeling past away!

Spark of that flame-perchance of heavenly birth

Which gleams-but warms no more its cherished earth!

BYRON.

51.-FROM THE TRAVELLER.

THUS, while around the wave-subjected soil
Impels the native to repeated toil,
Industrious habits in each bosom reign,
And industry begets a love of gain.

Hence all the good from opulence that springs,
With all those ills superfluous treasure brings,
Are here displayed. Their much-loved wealth imparts
Convenience, plenty, elegance, and arts;

But view them closer, craft and fraud appear,
Even liberty itself is bartered here.

At gold's superior charms all freedom flies,
The needy sell it, and the rich man buys;
A land of tyrants and a den of slaves.
Here wretches seek dishonourable graves,
And calmly bent, to servitude conform,
Dull as their lakes that slumber in the storm.
Heavens! how unlike their Belgic sires of old!
Rough, poor, content, ungovernably bold;
War in each breast, and freedom on each brow;
How much unlike the sons of Britain now!
Fired at the sound, my genius spreads her wing,
And flies where Britain courts the western spring;
Where lawns extend that scorn Arcadian pride,
And brighter streams than famed Hydaspes glide.
There all around the gentlest breezes stray,
There gentle music melts on every spray;
Creation's mildest charms are there combined,
Extremes are only in the master's mind.
Stern o'er each bosom Reason holds her state,
With daring aims irregularly great;
Pride in their port, defiance in their eye,

I see the lords of human kind pass by;

Intent on high designs, a thoughtful band,

By forms unfashioned, fresh from Nature's hand;
Fierce in their native hardiness of soul,

True to imagined right, above control;

While even the peasant boasts these rights to scan,
And learns to venerate himself as man.

GOLDSMITH.

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