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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.
OF THE MORAVIAN NUNS OF BETHLEHEM,
AT THE CONSECRATION OF PULASKI'S BANNER.
When the dying flame of day
Had been consecrated there.
HYMN OF THE MORAVIAN NUNS.
And the nun's sweet hymn was heard the while, Sung low in the dim, mysterious aisle.
“ Take thy banner ! May it wave
Breaks the sabbath of our vale,
When the clarion's music thrills
To the hearts of these lone hills,
“Take thy banner ! and, beneath
The battle-cloud's encircling wreath,
" Take thy banner! But, when night
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,
The warrior took that banner proud,