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Tell me not, in mournful numbers,

Life is but an empty dream!

For the soul is dead that slumbers,

And things are not what they seem. The shades of night were falling fast,

Life is real-life is earnestAs through an Alpine village passed

And the grave is not its goal; A youth, who bore, 'mid snow and ice,

Dust thou art, to dust returnest,
A banner with the strange device,

Was not spoken of the soul.
Excelsior !

Not enjoyment, and not sorrow,
His brow was sad; his eye beneath

Is our destined end or way; Flashed like a faulchion from its sheath;

But to act, that each to-morrow
And like a silver clarion rung

Find us farther than to-day.
'rt is long, and time is fleeting,

And our hearts, though stout and brave,

1, like muffled drums, are beating

Funeral marches to the grave.

he world's broad field of battle,

in the bivouac of Life, In the original issue of no.I not like dumb, driven cattle ! page 1 contains a prose intro

Be a hero in the strife ! duction dated at the foot: Phile-ist no Future, howe'er pleasant! delphia,lith mo.8th, 1844.

Let the dead Past bury its dead!

-act in the living Present! Page 2 has "Excelsior," A

Ieart within, and God o’erhead! "A Psalm of Life," and the begin-We can make our lives sublime,

es of great men all remind us ning of "Reform. "

1, departing, leave behind us
footsteps on the sands of time.

tsteps, that perhaps another

Sailing o'er life's solemn main,
vrlorn and ship-wrecked brother,
eeing, shall take heart again.
us then be up and doing,
Vith a heart for any fate;

achieving, still pursuing,
earn to labor and to wait.

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At break of day, as heavenward
The pious monks of St. Bernard
Uttered the oft-repeated prayer,
A voice cried through the startled air,



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 !

I shot an arrow into the air,
It fell to earth, I knew not where;
For, so swiftly it few, the sight
Could not follow it in its flight.
I breathed a song into the air,
It fell to earth, I knew not where ;
For who has sight so keen and strong,
That it can follow the flight of song?
Long, long afterward, in an oak,
I found the arrow, still unbroke;
And the song, from beginning to end,
I found again in the heart of a friend.

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,


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Responds,- as if with unseen wings
An angel touched its quivering strings,

And whispers, in its song,
- Where hast thou stayed so long !"


A new year of labor has begun in the stillness of winter. In the moral world, however, the fields are ever white for the harvest, and the reaper has only to put in the sickle, and do his part towards the great in-gathering. There are no seasons of repose to the reformer. It is ever, with him, seed-time and harvest. Though the seed he scatters broadcast over the world, is invisible to the unanointed eye, it is still a reality-the only reality-for that seed is truth. It becomes him ever to be ready, with his loins girded, and his seed in his hand, to go abroad, scattering the unseen, but almighty germs of happi

Much discouragement and disheartening will he meet with from a froward and perverse generation-because they look still sor an outward redemption, for an earthly Messiah. The evils of outward condition absorb their sight. They scoff at, and belie, and, it may be, crucify him who would draw them from their physical bondage, by the mighty

The night is come, but not too soon ;

And sinking silently,
All silently, the little moon

Drops down behind the sky.


There is no light in earth or heaven,

But the cold light of stars; And the first watch of night is given

To the red planet Mars.

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