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 to 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, 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 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 gray, Lifeless, but beautiful, he lay, And from the sky, serene and far, A voice fell, like a falling star, Excelsior! * * * * * THE RAINY DAY. 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 dreary. * * * * * THE WRECK OF THE HESPERUS. The writing of the following poem, “The Wreck of the Hesperus,” was occasioned by the news of a ship-wreck on the coast near Gloucester, and by the name of a reef――“Norman’s Woe”――where many disasters occurred. It was written one night between twelve and three o’clock, and cost the poet, it is said, hardly an effort.