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HYMN OF THE MORAVIAN NUNS
AT THE CONSECRATION OF PULASKI'S BANNER.
WHEN the dying flame of day
Had been consecrated there.
Proudly o'er the good and brave;
“ Take thy banner! and, beneath
Martial cloak and shroud for thee."
SUNRISE ON THE HILLS.
I stood upon the hills, when heaven's wide
arch Was glorious with the sun's returning march, And woods were brightened, and soft gales Went forth to kiss the sun-clad vales. The clouds were far beneath me;—bathed in
light, They gathered mid-way round the wooded
Where upward, in the mellow blush of day, The noisy bittern wheeled his spiral way.
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. Then o'er the vale, with gentle swell, 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
If thou art worn and hard beset With sorrows, that thou wouldst forget, If thou wouldst read a lesson, that will keep Thy heart from fainting and thy soul from
sleep, 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,
blows; Where, underneath the white-thorn, in the
glade, The wild flowers bloom, or, kissing the soft
air, The leaves above their sunny palms outspread. With what a tender and impassioned voice It fills the nice and delicate ear of thought, When the fast-ushering star of morning
comes O’er-riding the gray hills with golden scarf; Or when the cowled and dusky-sandaled Eve, In mourning weeds, from out the western
gate, Departs with silent pace! That spirit moves In the green valley, where the silver brook,