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Where, twisted round the barren oak,

The summer vine in beauty clung, And summer winds the stillness broke,

The crystal icicle is hung.

Where, from their frozen urns, mute springs

Pour out the river's gradual tide, Shrilly the skater's iron rings,

And voices fill the woodland side.

Alas ! how changed from the fair scene,

When birds sang out their mellow lay, And winds were soft, and woods were green,

And the song ceased not with the day.

But still wild music is abroad,

Pale, desert woods ! within your crowd; And gathering winds, in hoarse accord,

Amid the vocal reeds pipe loud.

Chill airs and wintry winds ! my ear Has grown

familiar with your song ; I hear it in the opening year,

I listen, and it cheers me long.

H

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,
Far the glimmering tapers shed
Faint light on the cowled head ;
And the censer burning swung,
Where, before the altar, hung
The blood-red banner, that with prayer

Had been consecrated there.

HYMN OF THE MORAVIAN NUNS.

43

And the nun's 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 battle-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."

The warrior took that banner proud,
And it was his martial cloak and shroud !

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