height,Excelsior!
At break of day, as heavenward
The pious monks of Saint Bernard
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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!
**************
POEMS ON SLAVERY.
[The following poems, with one exception, were written at sea, in the latter part of October, 1842. I had not then heard of Dr. Channing's death. Since that event, the poem addressed to him is no longer appropriate. I have decided, however, to let it remain as it was written, in testimony of my admiration for a great and good man.]
TO WILLIAM E. CHANNING The pages of thy book I read,
And as I closed each one,
My heart, responding, ever said, "Servant of God! well done!"
Well done! Thy words are great and bold; At times they seem to me,
Like Luther's, in the days of old, Half-battles for the free.
Go on, until this land revokes
The old and chartered Lie,
The feudal curse, whose whips and yokes
Insult humanity.
A voice is ever at thy side
Speaking in tones of might,
Like the prophetic voice, that cried
To John in Patmos, "Write!" Write! and tell out this bloody tale; Record this dire eclipse,
This Day of Wrath, this Endless Wail, This dread Apocalypse!
THE SLAVE'S DREAM
Beside the ungathered rice he lay, His sickle in his hand;
His breast was bare, his matted hair
Was buried in the sand.
Again, in the mist and shadow of sleep, He saw his Native Land.
Wide through the landscape of his dreams
The lordly Niger flowed;
Beneath the palm-trees on the plain
Once more a king he strode; And heard the tinkling caravans Descend the mountain-road.
He saw once more his dark-eyed queen
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Among her children stand;
They clasped his neck, they kissed his cheeks, They held him by the hand!--
A tear burst from the sleeper's lids
And fell into the sand.
And then at furious speed he rode
Along the Niger's bank;
His bridle-reins were golden chains, And, with a martial clank,
At each leap he could feel his scabbard of steel
Smiting his stallion's flank. Before him, like a blood-red flag, The bright flamingoes flew;
From morn till night he followed their flight,
O'er plains where the tamarind grew, Till he saw the roofs of Caffre huts, And the ocean rose to view.
At night he heard the lion roar, And the hyena scream,
And the river-horse, as he crushed the reeds
Beside some hidden stream;
And it passed, like a glorious roll of drums, Through the triumph of his dream.
The forests, with their myriad tongues, Shouted of liberty;
And the Blast of the Desert cried aloud, With a voice so wild and free,
That he started in his sleep and smiled
At their tempestuous glee.
He did not feel the driver's whip, Nor the burning heat of day;
For Death had illumined the Land of Sleep, And his lifeless body lay
A worn-out fetter, that the soul Had broken and thrown away! THE GOOD PART
THAT SHALL NOT BE TAKEN AWAY
She dwells by Great Kenhawa's side, In valleys green and cool;
And all her hope and all her pride
Are in the village school.
Her soul, like the transparent air
That robes the hills above,
Though not of earth, encircles there
All things with arms of love.
And thus she walks among her girls With praise and mild rebukes; Subduing e'en rude village churls
By her angelic looks.
She reads to them at eventide
Of One who came to save;
To cast the captive's chains aside
And liberate the slave.
And oft the blessed time foretells
When all men shall be free; And musical, as silver bells,
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Their falling chains shall be. And following her beloved Lord, In decent poverty,
She makes her life one sweet record
And deed of charity.
For she was rich, and gave up all
To break the iron bands
Of those who waited in her hall, And labored in her lands.
Long since beyond the Southern Sea Their outbound sails have sped, While she, in meek humility,
Now earns her daily bread.
It is their prayers, which never cease, That clothe her with such grace; Their blessing
