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In many a lazy syllable repeating
Their old poetic legends to the wind.
And this is the sweet spirit that doth fill
The world; and, in these wayward days of youth, My busy fancy oft embodies it,
As a bright image of the light and beauty
That dwell in nature—of the heavenly forms
We worship in our dreams, and the soft hues
The heaven of April, with its changing light,
When twilight makes them brown, and on her cheek
As, from the morning's dewy flowers, it comes
Full of their fragrance, that it was a joy
To have it round us and her silver voice
Was the rich music of a summer bird,
Heard in the still night, with its passionate cadence.
BURIAL OF THE MINNISINK.
ON sunny slope and beechen swell
Far upward, in the mellow light,
Rose the blue hills—one cloud of white;
Around, a far uplifted cone,
In the warm blush of evening shone
An image of the silver lakes
By which the Indian soul awakes.
But soon a funeral hymn was heard,
They sung, that by his native bowers
A dark cloak of the roebuck's skin
Before, a dark-haired virgin train
Stripped of his proud and martial dress,
He came; and oft that eye so proud
They buried the dark chief'; they freed
Alluding to an Indian superstition.
HYMN OF THE
MORAVIAN NUNS, AT THE
CONSECRATION OF PULASKI'S BANNER.
The standard of Count Pulaski, the noble Pole who fell in the attack upon Savannah, during the American Revolution, was of crimson silk, embroidered by the Moravian nuns of Bethlehem, in Pennsylvania.
WHEN the dying flame of day
That proud banner, which, with prayer,
And the nuns' sweet hymn was heard the while,
Take thy banner. May it wave
Take thy banner; and, beneath
Take thy banner. But when night
Spare him-he our love hath shared-
Take thy banner;—and if e'er
To the tread of mournful feet,
Then this crimson flag shall be
Martial cloak and shroud for thee.
And the warrior took that banner proud,