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النشر الإلكتروني

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
That lie i' the wild bird's wing, and flush the clouds
When the sun sets. Within her eye

The heaven of April, with its changing light,
And when it wears the blue of May, was hung,
And on her lip the rich red rose. Her hair
Was as the summer tresses of the trees,

When twilight makes them brown, and on her cheek
Blushed all the richness of an autumn sky,
With its ever-shifting beauty. Then her breath-
It was so like the gentle air of spring,

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
The shadowed light of evening fell;
And when the maple's leaf was brown,
With soft and silent lapse came down
The glory that the wood receives,
At sunset, in its golden leaves.

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,
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 sung, that by his 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.

Before, a dark-haired virgin train
Chanted the death-dirge of the slain ;
Behind, the long procession came
Of hoary men and chiefs of fame,
With heavy hearts, and eyes of grief,
Leading the war-horse of their chief.

Stripped of his proud and martial dress,
Uncurbed, unreined, and riderless,
With darting eye, and nostril spread,
And heavy and impatient tread,

He came; and oft that eye so proud
Asked for his rider in the crowd.

They buried the dark chief'; they freed
Beside the grave his battle steed;
And swift an arrow cleaved its way
To his stern heart.-One piercing neigh
Arose and on the dead man's plain,
The rider grasps his steed again.

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
Through the chancel shot its ray,
Far the glimmering tapers shed
Faint light on the cowled head,
And the censer burning swung,
Where before the altar hung

That proud banner, which, with prayer,
Had been consecrated there;

And the nuns' sweet hymn was heard the while,
Sung low in the dim mysterious aisle.

Take thy banner. May it wave
Proudly o'er the good and brave,
When the battle's distant wail
Breaks the Sabbath of our vale,-
When the clarion's music thrills
To the hearts of these lone hills,-
When the spear in conflict shakes,
And the strong lance shivering breaks.

L

Take thy banner; and, beneath
The war-cloud's encircling wreath,
Guard it-till our homes are free-
Guard it-God will prosper thee!
In the dark and trying hour,
In the breaking forth of power,
In the rush of steeds and men,
His right hand will shield thee then.

Take thy banner. But when night
Closes round the ghastly fight,
If the vanquished warrior bow,
Spare him ;-by our holy vow,
By our prayers and many tears,
By the mercy that endears,

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.

And the warrior took that banner proud,
And it was his martial cloak and shroud.

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