HYMN OF THE MORAVIAN NUNS OF BETHLEHEM, AT THE CONSECRATION OF PULASKI'S BANNER. WHEN the dying flame of day Through the chancel shot its ray, Where, before the altar, hung The blood-red banner, that with prayer Had been consecrated there. And the nun's sweet hymn was heard the while, Sung low in the dim, mysterious aisle. "Take thy banner! May it wave K "Take thy banner! and, beneath In the rush of steeds and men, "Take thy banner! But when night By the mercy that endears, Spare him!-he our love hath shared! Spare him!—as thou wouldst be spared' "Take thy banner!-and if e'er Thou shouldst press the soldier's bier, And the muffled drum should beat To the tread of mournful feet, Then this crimson flag shall be Martial cloak and shroud for thee." The warrior took that banner proud, And it was his martial cloak and shroud! SUNRISE ON THE HILLS. I STOOD UPON the hills, when heaven's wide arch Was glorious with the sun's returning march, The clouds were far beneath me ;-bathed in light, They gathered mid-way round the wooded height, And, in their fading glory, shone Like hosts in battle overthrown, As many a pinnacle, with shifting glance, Through the gray mist thrust up its shattered lance, And rocking on the cliff was left The dark pine blasted, bare, and cleft. The veil of cloud was lifted, and below Glowed the rich valley, and the river's flow Where upward, in the mellow blush of day, I heard the distant waters dash, I saw the current whirl and flash,— And richly, by the blue lake's silver beach, The woods were bending with a silent reach. The music of the village bell Came sweetly to the echo-giving hills; And the wild horn, whose voice the woodland fills, Was ringing to the merry shout, That faint and far the glen sent out, Where, answering to the sudden shot, thin smoke Through thick-leaved branches, from the dingle broke. If thou art worn and heart beset With sorrows, that thou wouldst forget, If thou wouldst read a lesson, that will keep Go to the woods and hills!-No tears Dim the sweet look that Nature wears. THE SPIRIT OF POETRY. THERE is a quiet spirit in these woods, That dwells where'er the gentle south wind blows; Slips down through moss-grown stones with endless laughter. And frequent, on the everlasting hills, Its feet go forth, when it doth wrap itself In all the dark embroidery of the storm, And shouts the stern, strong wind. And here, amid |