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 Saint Bernard
Utter'd the oft-repeated prayer,
A voice cried through the startled air, -
Excelsior!

A traveller, by a 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!

LONGFELLOW.

48. THE SAILOR'S MOTHER.

ONE morning (raw it was and wet,

A foggy day in winter time,)

A woman on the road I met,

Not old, though something past her prime;
Majestic in her person, tall and straight;

And like a Roman matron's was her mien and gait.

The ancient spirit is not dead;

Old times, thought I, are breathing there;
Proud was I that my country bred

Such strength, a dignity so fair:

She begg'd an alms, like one in poor estate;
I look'd at her again, nor did my pride abate.
When from these lofty thoughts I woke,
"What is it," said I," that you bear,
Beneath the covert of your cloak,

Protected from this cold damp air?"
She answer'd, soon as she the question heard,
"A simple burthen, Sir, a little singing-bird."
And, thus continuing, she said,

"I had a son, who many a day

Sail'd on the seas, but he is dead;

In Denmark he was cast away:

And I have travell'd weary miles to see

If aught which he had own'd might still remain for me.

"The bird and cage they both were his :

'Twas my son's bird; and neat and trim He kept it: many voyages

This singing-bird had

gone with him;

When last he sail'd, he left the bird behind;

From bodings, as might be, that hung upon his mind.

"He to a fellow-lodger's care

Had left it, to be watched and fed,
And pipe its song in safety; there
I found it when my son was dead;

And now, God help me for my little wit!

I bear it with me, Sir;-he took so much delight in it."

WORDSWORTH.

49. THE BEST KEPT TILL LAST.

Every man at the beginning doth set forth good wine; and when men have well drunk, then that which is worse: but thou hast kept the good wine until now. St. John ii. 10.

HE heart of childhood is all mirth:

THEA

We frolic to and fro

As free and blithe, as if on earth
Were no such thing as woe.

But if, indeed, with reckless faith
We trust the flattering voice,
Which whispers, "Take thy fill ere death,
Indulge thee and rejoice;

Too surely, every setting day,

Some lost delight we mourn;
The flow'rs all die along our way,
Till we, too, die forlorn.

Why should we fear, youth's draught of joy,
If pure, would sparkle less?
Why should the cup the sooner cloy,
Which God hath deign'd to bless ?

Who but a Christian, through all life
Youth's blessing may prolong?

Who, through the world's sad day of strife,
Still chant his morning song?

Fathers may hate us or forsake,

GOD's foundlings then are we:
Mother on child no pity take,

But we shall still have Thee

We may look home, and seek in vain

A fond fraternal heart,

But Christ hath giv'n his promise plain,
To do a brother's part.

Nor shall dull age, as worldlings say,
The heavenward flame annoy:
The Saviour cannot pass away,
And with Him lives our joy.

Ever the richest, tenderest glow
Sets round th' autumnal sun-
But there life fails: no heart may
The bliss when life is done.

Such is thy banquet, dearest Lord;
O give us grace, to cast

know

Our lot with thine,- to trust thy word,

And keep our best till last!

KEBLE.

50. SATURDAY AFTERNOON.

LOVE to look on a scene like this,
Of wild and careless play,

And persuade myself that I am not old,
And my locks are not yet gray;

For it stirs the blood in an old man's heart,

And it makes his pulses fly,

To catch the thrill of a happy voice,

And the light of a pleasant eye.

I have walk'd the earth for fourscore years;
And they say that I am old;

And my heart is ripe for the reaper, Death,
And my years are well-nigh told.
It is very true; it is very true;

I'm old, and " I 'bide my time;"
But my heart will leap at a scene like this,
And I half renew my prime.

Play on, play on; I am with you there,
In the midst of your merry ring;
I can feel the thrill of the daring jump,
And the rush of the breathless swing.
I hide with you in the fragrant hay,
And I whoop the smother'd call,
And my feet slip on the reedy floor,
And I care not for the fall.

I am willing to die when my time shall come.
And I shall be glad to go;

For the world, at best, is a weary place,
And my pulse is getting low;

But the grave is dark, and the heart will fail
On treading its gloomy way;

And it wiles my heart from its dreariness,
To see the young so gay.

N. P. WILLIS.