HYMN OF THE MORAVIAN NUNS OF BETHLEHEM, AT THE CONSECRATION OF PULASKI'S BANNER. WHEN the dying flame of day Where, before the altar, hung 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 "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 Spare him! he our love hath shared! Spare him!-as thou wouldst be spared! 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 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 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, |