"Take thy banner! May it wave "Take thy banner! and, beneath The battle-cloud's encircling wreath, "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, 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, 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 Glowed the rich valley, and the river's flow 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, 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 THE SPIRIT OF POETRY. THERE is a quiet spirit in these woods, That dwells where'er the gentle south wind blows; Slips down through moss-grown stones with endless laughter. 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 Its presence shall uplift thy thoughts from earth, The sylvan pomp of woods, the golden sun, And this is the sweet spirit, that doth fill As a bright image of the light and beauty The heaven of April, with its changing light, Is like the summer tresses of the trees, When twilight makes them brown; and on her cheek Blushes the richness of an autumn sky, With ever-shifting beauty. Then her breath, It is so like the gentle air of Spring, As, from the morning's dewy flowers, it comes To have it round us,—and her silver voice Heard in the still night, with its passionate cadence. BURIAL OF THE MINNISINK. ON sunny slope and beechen swell, The shadowed light of evening fell; And, where the maple's leaf was brown, With soft and silent lapse came down The glory, that the wood receives, At sunset, in its brazen leaves. Far upward in the mellow light Rose the blue hills. One cloud of white, In the warm blush of evening shone; By which the Indian's soul awakes. But soon a funeral hymn was heard, Where the soft breath of evening stirred The tall, gray forest; and a band Of stern in heart, and strong in hand, Came winding down beside the wave, To lay the red chief in his grave. They sang, that by its native bowers He stood, in the last moon of flowers, And thirty snows had not yet shed Their glory on the warrior's head; But, as the summer fruit decays, So died he in those naked days. A dark cloak of the roebuck's skin Covered the warrior, and within Its heavy folds the weapons, made For the hard toils of war, were laid; The cuirass, woven of plaited reeds, And the broad belt of shells and beads. |