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O what a glory doth this world put on
WOODS IN WINTER.
Alas ! how changed from the fair scene, That overbrows the lonely vale.
When birds sang out their mellow lay, D'er the bare upland, and away
And winds were soft, and woods were
green, Through the long reach of desert woods,
And the song ceased not with the day. The embracing sun beams chastely play,
And gladden these deep solitudes. But still wild music is abroad, Where, twisted round the barren oak,
Pale, desert woods ! within your crowd; Tbe summer vine in beauty clung,
And gathering winds, in hoarse accord, And summer winds the stillness broke,
Amid the vocal reeds pipe loud. The crystal icicle is hung.
Chill airs and wintry winds ! my ear Where, from their frozen urns, mute Has grown familiar with your song; springs
I hear it in the opening year,Pour out the river's gradual tide, I listen, and it cheers me long.
SUNRISE ON THE HILLS.
I heard the distant waters dash,
If thou art worn and hard beset
HYMN OF THE MORAVIAN NUNS OF BETHLEHEM,
AT THE CONSECRATION OF PULASKI'S BANNER.
In the dark and trying hour,
His right hand will shield thee then. “ Take thy banner! But, when night
Closes round the ghastly fight,
Thou shouldst press the soldier's bier,
When the dying flame of day
Had been consecrated there.
Proudly o'er the good and brave;
And the strong lance shivering breaks. “ Take thy banner! and, beneath
The battle-cloud's encircling wreath,
The warrior took that banner proud,
BURIAL OF THE MINNISINK.
Ox sunny slope and beechen swell,
A dark cloak of the roebuck's skin The shadowed light of evening fell; Covered the warrior, and within And, where the maple's leaf was brown, Its heavy folds the weapons, made With soft and silent lapse came down For the hard toils of war were laid ; The glory, that the wood receives, The cuirass, woven of plaited reeds, At sunset, in its brazen leaves.
And the broad belt of shells and beads, Far upward in the mellow light
Before, a dark-haired virgin train Rose the blue hills. One cloud of white, Chanted the death-dirge of the slain ; Around a far uplifted cone,
Bebind, the long procession came In the warm blush of evening shone; Of hoary men and chiefs of fame, An image of the silver lakes,
With heavy hearts, and eyes of grief, By which the Indian's soul awakes. Leading the war-horse of their chief.
But soon a funeral hymn was heard Stripped of his proud and martial dress, Where the soft breath of evening stirred Uncurbed, unreined, and riderless, The tall, grey forest; and a band With darting eye, and nostril spread, Of stern in heart, and strong in hand, And heavy and impatient tread, Came winding down beside the wave, He came; and oft that eye so proud To lay the red chief in his grave.
Asked for his rider in the crowd. They sang, that by his native bowers They buried the dark chief-they freed He stood in the last moon of flowers, Beside the grave his battle steed; And thirty snows bad not yet shed And swift an arrow cleaved its way Their glory on the warrior's head ; To his stern heart! One piercing neigh But, as the summer fruit decays, Arose, -and, on the dead man's plaiu, So died be in those naked days.
The rider grasps his steed again.
THE SPIRIT OF POETRY.
In all the dark embroidery of the storm,
And this is the sweet spirit, that doth fill
PLEASANT it was, when woods were green, Dreams that the soul of youth engage And winds were soft and low,
Ere fancy has been quelled; I lie amid some sylvan scene,
Old legends of the monkish page, Where, the long drooping boughs between, Traditions of the saint and sage, Shadows dark and sunlight sheen Tales that have the rime of age, Alternate come and go ;
And chronicles of eld. Or, where the denser grove receives And, loving still these quaint old themes, No sunlight from above,
Even in the city's throng But the dark foliage interweaves
I feel the freshness of the streams, In one unbroken roof of leaves,
That, crossed by shades and sunny gleams, Underneath whose sloping eaves
Water the green land of dreams, The shadows hardly move.
The holy land of song. Beneath some patriarcbal tree
Therefore, at Pentecost, which brings I lay upon the ground ; His hoary arms uplitted he,
The Spring, clothed like a bride, And all the broad leaves over me
When nestling buds unfold their wings, Clapped their little hands in glee,
And bishop's-caps have golden rings, With one continuous sound;
Musing upon many things,
I sought the woodlands wide. A slumberous sound,-a sound that brings
The green trees whispered low and mild; The feelings of a dream,
It was a sound of joy ! As of innumerable wings,
They were my playmates when a child, As, when a bell no longer swings,
And rocked me in their arms so wild ! Paint the hollow murmur rings
Still they looked at me and smiled,
As if I were a boy ;
" Come, be a child once more !" As lapped in thought I used to lie, And waved their long arms to and fry, And gaze into the summer sky,
And beckoned solemnly and slow;
Into the woodlands hoar ;