W AUTUMN ITH what a glory comes and goes the year! The buds of spring, those beautiful harbingers Of sunny skies and cloudless times, enjoy Life's newness, and earth's garniture spread out; There is a beautiful spirit breathing now Its mellow richness on the clustered trees, And, from a beaker full of richest dyes, Pouring new glory on the autumn woods, And dipping in warm light the pillared clouds. Morn on the mountain, like a summer bird, Lifts up her purple wing, and in the vales. The gentle wind, a sweet and passionate wooer, Kisses the blushing leaf, and stirs up life Within the solemn woods of ash deep-crimsoned, And silver beech, and maple yellow-leaved, Where Autumn, like a faint old man, sits down By the wayside a-weary. Through the trees. The golden robin moves. The purple finch, O what a glory doth this world put on For him who, with a fervent heart, goes forth Under the bright and glorious sky, and looks On duties well performed, and days well spent! For him the wind, ay, and the yellow leaves, Shall have a voice, and give him eloquent teachings. He shall so hear the solemn hymn that Death Has lifted up for all, that he shall go To his long resting-place without a tear. WOODS IN WINTER WHEN winter winds are piercing chill, W And through the hawthorn blows the gale, With solemn feet I tread the hill, That overbrows the lonely vale. O'er the bare upland, and away Through the long reach of desert woods, The embracing sunbeams chastely play, Where, twisted round the barren oak, 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, When birds sang out their mellow lay, And winds were soft, and woods were green, And the song ceased not with the day! 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 I hear it in the opening year, I listen, and it cheers me long. HYMN OF THE MORAVIAN NUNS OF BETHLEHEM AT THE CONSECRATION OF PULASKI'S BANNER W HEN the dying flame of day Through the chancel shot its ray, Far the glimmering tapers shed Where, before the altar, hung The crimson banner, that 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 "Take thy banner! and, beneath The battle-cloud's encircling wreath, Guard it, till our homes are free! "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, 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! |