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sleepless eye,
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 falchion 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! |
| "Try not the Pass!" the old man said; |
| "Dark lowers the tempest overhead, |
| The roaring torrent is deep and wide!" |
| And loud the 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 up the height, |
| Excelsior! |
| At break of day, as heavenward |
| The pious monks of Saint 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! |
| Henry W. Longfellow. |
The Bivouac of the Dead
| The muffled drum's sad roll has beat |
| The soldier's last tattoo; |
| No more on life's parade shall meet |
| That brave and fallen few. |
| On fame's eternal camping ground |
| Their silent tents are spread, |
| And Glory guards with solemn round |
| The bivouac of the dead. |
| No rumor of the foe's advance |
| Now swells upon the wind; |
| No troubled thought at midnight haunts |
| Of loved ones left behind; |
| No vision of the morrow's strife |
| The warrior's dream alarms; |
| No braying horn or screaming fife |
| At dawn shall call to arms. |
| Their shivered swords are red with rust; |
| Their plumèd heads are bowed; |
| Their haughty banner, trailed in dust, |
| Is now their martial shroud; |
| And plenteous funeral tears have washed |
| The red stains from each brow; |
| And the proud forms, by battle gashed, |
