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Her sport will leave, nor cast one look behind,
Soon as she hears his voice, - for he is blind!

List! as in tones through deep affection mild
He speaks by name to the delighted child;
Then, bending mute in dreams of painful bliss
Breathes o'er her neck a father's tenderest kiss,
And with light hand upon her forehead fair
Smooths the stray ringlets of her silky hair.
A beauteous phantom rises through the night,
Forever brooding o'er his darkened sight,
So clearly imaged both in form and limb,
He scarce remembers that his eyes are dim,
But thinks he sees in truth the vernal wreath
His gentle infant wove, that it might breathe
A sweet, restoring fragrance through his breast,
Chosen from the wild-flowers that he loves the best.
In that sweet trance he sees the sparkling glee
That sanctifies the face of infancy;

The dimpled cheek where playful fondness lies.
And the blue softness of her smiling eyes;

The spirit's temple unprofaned by tears,

Where God's unclouded loveliness appears;

Those gleams of soul to every feature given,

When youth walks guiltless by the light of heaven.

And O, what pleasures through his spirit burn, When to the gate his homeward steps return; When fancy's eye the curling smoke surveys, And his own hearth is gayly heard to blaze! How beams his sightless visage, when the press Of Love's known hand, with cheerful tenderness, Falls on his arm, and leads, with guardian care, His helpless footsteps to th' accustomed chair;

When the dear voice he joyed from youth to hear
With kind inquiry comes unto his ear,

And tremulous tells how lovely still must be
Those fading beauties that he ne'er must see!

Though ne'er by him his cottage-home be seen
Where to the wild brook slopes the daisied green;
Though the bee, slowly borne on laden wing,
To him be known but by its murmuring;
And the long leaf that trembles in the breeze
Be all that tells him of his native trees;
Yet dear to him each viewless object round,
Familiar to his soul from touch or sound.
The stream, 'mid banks of osier, winding near,
Lulls his calm spirit through the listening ear:
Deeply his soul enjoys the loving strife
When the warm summer air is filled with life;
And as his limbs in quiet dreams are laid,
Blest is the oak's contemporary shade.

Happy old man! no vain regrets intrude
On the still hour of sightless solitude.
Though deepest shades o'er outward Nature roll,
Her cloudless beauty lives within thy soul.

Oft to yon rising mount thy steps ascend,
As to the spot where dwelt a former friend;
From whose green summit thou couldst once behold
Mountains far off in dim confusion rolled,

Lakes of blue mist, where gleamed the whitening sail And many a woodland interposing vale.

Thou seest them still; and O, how soft a` shade

Does memory breathe o'er mountain, wood, and glade! Each craggy pass, where oft, in sportive scorn

Had sprung thy limbs in life's exulting morn ;

Each misty cataract, and torrent flood,

Where thou, a silent angler, oft hast stood;

Each sheltered creek, where, through the roughest day,
Floated thy bark without the anchor's stay;
Each nameless field by nameless thought endeared;
Each little hedgerow that thy childhood reared,
That seems unaltered yet in form and size,
Though fled the clouds of fifty summer skies,
Rise on thy soul, on high devotion springs
Through Nature's beauty, borne on Fancy's wings;
And while the blissful vision floats around,
Of loveliest form, fair hue, and melting sound,
Thou carest not though blindness may not roam,-
For Heaven's own glory shines around thy home.

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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;

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Above, the spectral glaciers shone,
And from his lips escaped a groan,
Excelsior!

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"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,
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 St. Bernard
Uttered the oft-repeated prayer,
A voice cried through the startled air,
Excelsior!

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!

There, in the twilight, cold and gray,
Lifeless, but beautiful, he lay,

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A SWALLOW in the spring

Came to our granary, and 'neath the eaves
Essayed to make a nest, and there did bring
Wet earth, and straw, and leaves.

Day after day she toiled

With patient heart; but ere her work was crowned,
Some sad mishap the tiny fabric spoiled,
And dashed it to the ground.

She found the ruin wrought;

But, not cast down, forth from the place she flew, And, with her mate, fresh earth and grasses brought, And built her nest anew.

But scarcely had she placed

The last soft feather on its ample floor,

When wicked hand, or chance, again laid waste,
And wrought the ruin o'er.

But still her heart she kept,

And toiled again; and last night, hearing calls,
I looked, and lo! three little swallows slept
Within the earth-made walls.

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