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WOODS IN WINTER.
WHEN winter winds are piercing chill,
And through the hawthorn blows the gale, With solemn feet I tread the hill,
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,
The summer vine in beauty clung, And summer winds the stilluess 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 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.
“ Take thy banner! May it wave
Proudly o'er the good and brave;
“ Take thy banner! and, beneath
The battle-cloud's encircling wreath,
"Take thy banner! But, when night
Closes round the ghastly fight,
as thou wouldst be spared !
“ Take thy banner ! — and if e'er
Thou shouldst press the soldier's bier,
The warrior took that banner proud,
SUNRISE ON THE HILLS.
I STOOD upon the hills, when heaven's wide arch
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, Then o'er the vale, with gentle swell, 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, Where, answering to the sudden shot, thin smoke, Through thick-leaved branches, from the dingle broke.
If thou art worn and hard beset
THE SPIRIT OF POETRY.
THERE is a quiet spirit in these woods,
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, As to the sunshine and the pure, bright air Their tops the green trees lift. Hence gifted bards Have ever loved the calm and quiet shades. For them there was an eloquent voice in all The sylvan pomp of woods, the golden sun,