Where, twisted round the barren oak, 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, 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 HYMN OF THE MORAVIAN NUNS OF BETHLEHEM, AT THE CONSECRATION OF PULASKI'S BANNER. WHEN the dying flame of day 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 To the hearts of these lone hills, "Take thy banner! and, beneath The battle-cloud's encircling wreath, Guard it! God will prosper thee' In the dark and trying hour, In the breaking forth of power, 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 ' "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! |