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For mortal purpose given;
Nor may it fit my sober mood
To sing of sweetly murmuring flood,
Or dies of many-colored wood,
That mock the bow of heaven.
But, know, 'twas mine the secret power
That waked thee at the midnight hour,
In bleak November's reign:
'Twas I the spell around thee cast,
When thou didst hear the hollow blast
In murmurs tell of pleasures past,
That ne'er would come again;–
And led thee, when the storm was o'er,
To hear the sullen ocean roar,
By dreadful calm oppressed;
Which still, though not a breeze was there,
Its mountain-billows heaved in air,
As if a living thing it were,
That strove in vain for rest.
'Twas I, when thou, subdued by wo,
Didst watch the leaves descending slow,
To each a moral gave ;
And, as they moved, in mournful train,
With rustling sound, along the plain,
Taught them to sing a seraph's strain
Of peace within the grave.
And then, upraised thy streaming eye,
I met thee in the western sky,
In pomp of evening cloud,
That, while with varying form it rolled,
Some wizard's castle seemed of gold,
And now a crimsoned knight of old,
Or king in purple proud.
And last, as sunk the setting sun,
And Evening, with her shadows dun,
The gorgeous pageant passed,
*Twas then of life a mimic show,
Of human grandeur here below,
Which thus beneath the fatal blow
Of Death must fall at last.
O, then, with what aspiring gaze
Didst thou thy tranced vision raise
To yonder orbs on high,
And think how wondrous, how sublime
*Twere upwards to their spheres to climb,
And live beyond the reach of Time,
Child of Eternity :
THERE is an unseen Power around,
Existing in the silent air:
Where treadeth man, where space is found,
Unheard, unknown, that Power is there.
And not when bright and busy day
- Is round us with its crowds and cares,
And not when night, with solem sway,
Bids awe-hushed souls breathe forth in prayers—
Not when, on sickness’ weary couch,
He writhes with pain's deep, long-drawn groan,
Not when his steps in freedom .
The fresh green turf–is man alone.
In proud Belshazzar’s gilded hall,
"Mid music, lights, and revelry,
That Present Spirit looked on all,
From crouching slave to royalty.
When sinks the pious Christian’s soul,
And scenes of horror daunt his eye,
He hears it whispered through the air,
“A Power of Mercy still is nigh.”
The Power that watches, guides, defends,
Till man becomes a lifeless sod,
Till earth is nought, nought, earthly friends,-
That omnipresent Power—is God.
Hymn of the Moravian JWuns at the Consecration of Pulaska’s Banner.—H. W. Long FELLow.
The standard of count Pulaski, the noble Pole who fell in the attack upon Savannah, during the American Revolution, was of crimson silk, embroidered by the Moravian nuns of Bethlehem in Pennsylvania.
WHEN the dying flame of day
Through the chancel shot its ray,
Far the glimmering tapers shed
Faint light on the cowled head,
And the censer burning swung,
Where before the altar hung
That proud banner, which, with prayer,
Had been consecrated there;
And the nuns’ sweet hymn was heard the while,
Sung low in the dim mysterious aisle.
Take thy banner. May it wave
Proudly o'er the good and brave,
When the battle's distant wail
Breaks the Sabbath of our vale,
When the clarion’s music thrills
To the hearts of these lone hills,
When the spear in conflict shakes,
And the strong lance shivering breaks.
Take thy banner;-and, beneath
The war-cloud's encircling wreath,
Guard it—till our homes are free—
Guard it—God will prosper thee!
In the dark and trying hour,
In the breaking forth of power,
In the rush of steeds and men,
His right hand will shield thee then.
Take thy banner. But when night
Closes round the ghastly fight,
If the vanquished warrior bow,
Spare him;-by our holy vow,
By our prayers and many tears,
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.
And the warrior took that banner proud,
And it was his martial cloak and shroud.
THEY have watched her last and quivering breath,
And the maiden’s soul has flown;
They have wrapped her in the robes of death,
And laid her, dark and lone.
But the mother casts a look behind,
Upon that fallen flower,<
Nay, start not—’twas the gathering wind;
#. limbs have lost their power.
And tremble not at that cheek of snow,
O'er which the faint light plays;
'Tis only the crimson curtain's glow,
Which thus deceives thy gaze.
Didst thou not close that expiring eye,
And feel the soft pulse decay 2
And did not thy lips receive the sigh,
Which bore her soul away?
She lies on her couch, all pale and hushed,
And heeds not thy gentle tread,
And is still as the spring-flower by traveller crushed,
Which dies on its snowy bed.
The mother has flown from that lonely room,
And the maid is mute and pale;
Her ivory hand is cold as the tomb,
And dark is her stiffened nail.
Her mother strays with folded arms,
And her head is bent in wo;
She shuts her thoughts to joy or charins;
No tear attempts to flow.
But listen! what name salutes her ear?
It comes to a heart of stone; -
“Jesus,” she cries, “has no power here;
My daughter's life has flown.”
He leads the way to that cold white couch,
And bends o'er the senseless form;
Can his be less than a heavenly touch
The maiden's hand is warml
And the fresh blood comes with roseate hue,
While Death's dark terrors fly;
Her form is raised, and her step is true,
And life beams bright in her eye.
Departure of the Pioneer.—BRAINARD.
FAR away from the hill-side, the lake and the hamlet,
The rock and the brook, and yon meadow so gay;
From the foot-path, that winds by the side of the streamlet;
From his hut and the grave of his friend far away;
He is gone where the footsteps of man never ventured,
Where the glooms of the wild tangled forest are centred,
Where no beam of the sun or the sweet moon has entered,
No blood-hound has roused up the deer with his bay.
He has left the green valley for paths where the bison
Roams through the prairies, or leaps o'er the flood;
Where the snake in the swamp sucks the deadliest poison,
And the cat of the mountains keeps watch for its É.
But the leaf shall be greener, the sky shall be purer,
The eyes shall be clearer, the rifle be surer,
And stronger the arm of the fearless endurer,
That trusts nought but Heaven in his way through the wood
lf. be the heart of the poor lonely wanderer, irm be his step through each wearisome mile,