But still he answered, with a sigh, Still grasping in his hand of ice That banner with the strange de

Excelsior!

This was the peasant's last Good-Lifeless, but beautiful, he lay,

night,

And from the sky, serene and far,

A voice replied, far up the height, A voice fell, like a falling star, Excelsior!

Excelsior!

POEMS ON SLAVERY

TO WILLIAM E. CHANNING This Day of Wrath, this Endless

And the Blast of the Desert cried She makes her life one sweet re

Where waving mosses shroud the That I could not choose but hear,

And the cedar grows, and the Songs of triumph, and ascriptions,

Where hardly a human foot could Perished Pharaoh and his host.

All things above were bright and And what earthquake's arm of

But the voice of nature was too Upon the pillars of the temple