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And now I'm old, and going—I'm sure I can't

tell where; One comfort is, this world's so hard, I can't be

worse off there: · If I might but be a sea-dove, I'd fly across the

main, To the pleasant Isle of Avès, to look at it once

again.

JOHN LOGAN,

BORN 1748.
DIED 1788.

Ode to the Cuckoo.

Harl, beauteous stranger of the grove !

Thou messenger of Spring!
Now heaven repairs thy rural seat,
· And woods thy welcome sing.
What time the daisy decks the green,

Thy certain voice we hear;
Hast thou a star to guide thy path,

Or mark the rolling year?

Delightful visitant! with thee

I hail the time of flowers,
And hear the sound of music sweet

From birds among the bowers.

The school-boy, wandering through the wood

To pull the primrose gay, Starts, thy curious voice to hear,

And imitates thy lay.

What time the pea puts on the bloom,

Thou fliest the vocal vale, An annual guest to other lands

Another spring to hail.

Sweet bird ! thy bower is ever green,

Thy sky is ever clear ;
Thou hast no sorrow in thy song,

No winter in thy year.

Oh, could I fly, I'd fly with thee !

We'd make, with joyful wing, Our annual visit o'er the globe,

Companions of the spring.

[graphic]

HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW,

(An American Poet.)

BORN 1807.

OTHER WRITINGS :- Voices of the Night; The Golden Legend;

Evangeline; Hiawatha.

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THE shades of night were falling fast,
As through an Alpine village passed
A youth, who bore, ʼmid 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,

* EXCELSIOR.-Higher, onward and upward.

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 !

(6 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 !

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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 !

* ST. BERNARD.-A mountain pass between Switzerland and Savoy, where travellers are often overtaken by sudden storms, and the falling of snow and ice called Avalanches. There is a monastery there, and the monks have trained dogs to assist in rescuing distressed travellers. These dogs discover the traveller by their delicate scent, and then scratch away the snow and call for help.

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 old

lock on the Stairs

SOMEWHAT back from the village street
Stands the old-fashioned country seat.
Across its antique portico
Tall poplar-trees their shadows throw;
And from its station in the hall
An ancient timepiece says to all,-

“For ever-never !

Never-for ever ! ”

Half way up the stairs it stands,
And points and beckons with its hands,
From its case of massive oak;
Like a monk, who, under his cloak,
Crosses himself, and sighs, alas !
With sorrowful voice to all who pass,-

“ For ever-never !

Never-for ever!”

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