KING WITLAF'S DRINKING-HORN. They drank to the soul of Witlaf, They drank to the Saints and Martyrs And as soon as the horn was empty And the reader droned from the pulpit, Till the great bells of the convent, Proclaimed the midnight hour. And the Yule-log cracked in the chimney, And the flamelets flapped and flickered, Yet still in his pallid fingers He clutched the golden bowl, In which, like a pearl dissolving, But not for this their revels The jovial monks forbore, For they cried, "Fill high the goblet! THE shades of night were falling fast, 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! EXCELSIOR. In happy homes he saw the light "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 "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 voice cried through the startled air, A traveller, by the faithful hound, Still grasping in his hand of ice Excelsior! |