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Deep and still, that gliding streami
Then why pause with indecision,
Seest thou shadows sailing by,
Hearest thou voices on the shore,
O, thou child of many prayers!
Like the swell of some sweet tune,
Childhood is the bough, where slumbered
Gather, then, each flower that grows,
Bear a lily in thy hand;
Gates of brass cannot withstand
Bear through sorrow, wrong, and ruth,
O, that dew, like balm, shall steal
And that smile, like sunshine, dart
THE shades of night were falling fast,
His brow was sad; his eye beneath,
The accents of that unknown tongue,
In happy homes he saw the light
And from his lips escaped a groan,
"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 Thy weary head upon this breast!"
A tear stood in his bright blue eye,
"Beware the pine-tree's withered branch! Beware the awful avalanche !
This was the peasant's last Good-night,
At break of day, as heavenward
A traveller, by the faithful hound,
There in the twilight cold and gray,
[The following poems, with one exception, were written at sea in the latter part of October. 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, a feeble testimony of my admiration for a great and good man.]