MAIDENHOOD. Thou whose locks outshine the sun, As the braided streamlets run! Standing, with reluctant feet, Gazing, with a timid glance, Deep and still, that gliding stream Then why pause with indecision, Seest thou shadows sailing by, Hearest thou voices on the shore, O, thou child of many prayers! Life hath quicksands,-Life hath snares! Care and age come unawares! Like the swell of some sweet tune, Morning rises into noon, May glides onward into June. Childhood is the bough, where slumbered Birds and blossoms many-numbered;— Age, that bough with snows encumbered. Gather, then, each flower that grows, Bear a lily in thy hand; Gates of brass cannot withstand One touch of that magic wand. Bear through sorrow, wrong, and ruth, In thy heart the dew of youth, On thy lips the smile of truth. O, that dew, like balm, shall steal And that smile, like sunshine, dart Into many a sunless heart, For a smile of God thou art. THE shades of night were falling fast, 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! 66 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 "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, Still grasping in his hand of ice There in the twilight cold and gray, Lifeless, but beautiful, he lay, Excelsior! |