WOODS IN WINTER. WHEN winter winds are piercing chill, That overbrows the lonely vale. O'er the bare upland, and away Through the long reach of desert woods, The embracing sunbeams chastely play, And gladden these deep solitudes. Where, twisted round the barren oak, Where, from their frozen urns, mute springs 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 I listen, and it cheers me long. HYMN OF THE MORAVIAN NUNS OF BETHLEHEM, AT THE CONSECRATION OF PULASKI'S BANNER. WHEN the dying flame of day The blood-red banner, that with prayer And the nuns' sweet hymn was heard the while, "Take thy banner! May it wave "Take thy banner! and, beneath The battle-cloud's encircling wreath, 66 Take thy banner! But, when night Spare him! -he our love hath shared! "Take thy banner!—and if e'er The warrior took that banner proud, 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, Like hosts in battle overthrown, As many a pinnacle, with shifting glance, L SUNRISE ON THE HILLS. And rocking on the cliff was left The dark pine blasted, bare, and cleft, Where upward, in the mellow blush of day, I heard the distant waters dash, And richly, by the blue lake's silver beach, 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, 87 Where, answering to the sudden shot, thin smoke, Through thick-leaved branches, from the dingle broke. If thou art worn and hard beset With sorrows, that thou wouldst forget, If thou wouldst read a lesson, that will keep 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, That dwells where'er the gentle south wind blows; And frequent, on the everlasting hills, Its feet go forth, when it doth wrap itself In all the dark embroidery of the storm, And shouts the stern, strong wind. And here, amid The silent majesty of these deep woods, Its presence shall uplift thy thoughts from earth, Their tops the green trees lift. Hence gifted bards |