And we knew that the iron ship of our foes
Was steadily steering its course
To try the force
Of our ribs of oak.
Down upon us heavily runs,
Silent and sullen, the floating fort ;
Then comes a puff of smoke from her guns,
And leaps the terrible death
With fiery breath
From each open port.
We are not idle, but send her straight
Defiance back in a full broadside :
As hail rebounds from a roof of slate,
Rebounds our heavier hail
From each iron scale
Of the monster's hide.
"Strike your flag!" the rebel cries,
In his arrogant old plantation strain ;
"Never!" our gallant Morris replies,-
"It is better to sink than to yield."
And the whole air peal'd
With the cheers of our men.
Then, like a kraken huge and black,
She crush'd our ribs in her iron grasp :
Down went the Cumberland, all a wrack,
With a sudden shudder of death
And the cannon's breath
For her dying gasp.
Next morn, as the sun rose over the bay,
Still floated our flag at the mainmast-head.
Lord! how beautiful was thy day :
Ho! brave hearts that went down in the seas!
Ye are at peace in the troubled stream;
Ho! brave land! with hearts like these
Thy flag, that is rent in twain,
Shall be one again,
And without a seam!
The shades of night were falling fast
As through an Alpine village pass'd
A youth who bore, 'mid snow and ice,
A banner with the strange device-
Excelsior!
His brow was sad, his eye beneath
Flash'd 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—
"Try not the Pass!" the old man said;
"Dark lowers the tempest over-head,
The roaring torrent is deep and wide!"
And loud that 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 answer'd, with a sigh,
Excelsior!
"Beware the pine-tree's wither'd 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
Utter'd the oft-repeated prayer,
A voice cried through the startled air-
Excelsior!
A traveler, 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 grey,
Lifeless, but beautiful, he lay;
And from the sky, serene and far,
A voice fell like a falling star-
The day is cold and dark and dreary;
It rains, and the wind is never weary;
The vine still clings to the mouldering wall,
But at every gust the dead leaves fall:
And the day is dark and dreary.
My life is cold, and dark, and dreary ;
It rains, and the wind is never weary;
My thoughts still cling to the mouldering past,
But the hopes of youth fall thick in the blast,
And the days are dark and dreary.
Be still, sad heart! and cease repining :
Behind the clouds is the sun still shining;
Thy fate is the common fate of all:
Into each life some rain must fall,
Some days must be dark and dreary.
Come to me, O ye children!
For I hear you at your play :
And the questions that perplex'd me
Have vanish'd quite away.
Ye open the Eastern windows
That look toward the sun,
Where thoughts are singing swallows
And the brooks of morning run.
In your hearts are the birds and the sunshine,
In your thoughts the brooklets flow:
But in mine is the wind of Autumn
And the first fall of the snow.
Ah! what would the world be to us,
If the children were no more?
We should dread the desert behind us
Worse than the dark before.
What the leaves are to the forest,
With light and air for food,
Ere their sweet and tender juices
Have been harden'd into wood,—
That to the world are children :
Through them it feels the glow Of a brighter and sunnier climate
Than reaches the trunks below.
Come to me, O ye children!
And whisper in my ear
What the birds and the winds are singing
In your sunny atmosphere.
For what are all our contrivings,
And the wisdom of our books,
When compared with your caresses
And the gladness of your looks?
Ye are better than all the ballads
That ever were sung or said:
For ye are living poems,
And all the rest are dead.
IN SCHOOL-DAYS.
Still sits the school-house by the road,
A ragged beggar, sunning:
Around it still the sumachs grow,
And blackberry vines are running.
Within the master's desk is seen,
Deep-scarr'd by raps official;
The warping floor, the batter'd seats,
The jack-knife's carved initial;
The charcoal frescoes on its wall;
Its door's worn sill, betraying
The feet that, creeping slow to school,
Went storming out to playing.
Long years ago a winter sun
Shone over it at setting;
Lit up its Western window panes
And low eaves icy fretting.
It touch'd the tangled golden curls,
And brown eyes full of grieving,
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