O, then, with what aspiring gaze
Didst thou thy tranced vision raise
To yonder orbs on high,
And think how wondrous, how sublime
'Twere upwards to their spheres to climb,
And live beyond the reach of Time,
Child of Eternity!
THERE is an unseen Power around,
Existing in the silent air:
Where treadeth man, where space is found,
Unheard, unknown, that Power is there.
And not when bright and busy day
Is round us with its crowds and cares, And not when night, with solem sway,
Bids awe-hushed souls breathe forth in prayers
Not when, on sickness' weary couch,
He writhes with pain's deep, long-drawn groan,
Not when his steps in freedom touch
The fresh green turf-is man alone.
In proud Belshazzar's gilded hall,
'Mid music, lights, and revelry,
That Present Spirit looked on all,
From crouching slave to royalty.
When sinks the pious Christian's soul,
And scenes of horror daunt his eye,
He hears it whispered through the air,
"A Power of Mercy still is nigh."
The Power that watches, guides, defends,
Till man becomes a lifeless sod,
Till earth is nought,-nought, earthly friends,-
That omnipresent Power-is God.
Hymn of the Moravian Nuns at the Consecration of Pulaski's Banner.-H. W. LONGFELLOW.
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.
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.
The Raising of Jairus's Daughter.-N. A. REVIEW.
THEY have watched her last and quivering breath,
And the maiden's soul has flown;
They have wrapped her in the robes of death,
And laid her, dark and lone.
But the mother casts a look behind,
Upon that fallen flower,-
Nay, start not-'twas the gathering wind;
Those limbs have lost their power.
And tremble not at that cheek of snow,
O'er which the faint light plays;
'Tis only the crimson curtain's glow,
Which thus deceives thy gaze.
Didst thou not close that expiring eye,
And feel the soft pulse decay?
And did not thy lips receive the sigh,
Which bore her soul away?
She lies on her couch, all pale and hushed,
And heeds not thy gentle tread,
And is still as the spring-flower by traveller crushed, Which dies on its snowy bed.
The mother has flown from that lonely room,
And the maid is mute and pale;
Her ivory hand is cold as the tomb,
And dark is her stiffened nail.
Her mother strays with folded arms,
And her head is bent in wo;
She shuts her thoughts to joy or charms;
No tear attempts to flow.
But listen! what name salutes her ear?
It comes to a heart of stone;
"Jesus," she cries, "has no power here;
My daughter's life has flown."
He leads the way to that cold white couch,
And bends o'er the senseless form;
Can his be less than a heavenly touch?
The maiden's hand is warm!
And the fresh blood comes with roseate hue,
While Death's dark terrors fly;
Her form is raised, and her step is true,
And life beams bright in her eye.
Departure of the Pioneer.-BRAINARD.
FAR away from the hill-side, the lake and the hamlet,
The rock and the brook, and yon meadow so gay;
From the foot-path, that winds by the side of the streamlet;
From his hut and the grave of his friend far away;
He is gone where the footsteps of man never ventured,
Where the glooms of the wild tangled forest are centred,
Where no beam of the sun or the sweet moon has entered,
No blood-hound has roused up the deer with his bay.
He has left the green valley for paths where the bison Roams through the prairies, or leaps o'er the flood; Where the snake in the swamp sucks the deadliest poison, And the cat of the mountains keeps watch for its food. But the leaf shall be greener, the sky shall be purer,
The eyes shall be clearer, the rifle be surer,
And stronger the arm of the fearless endurer,
That trusts nought but Heaven in his way through the wood.
Light be the heart of the poor lonely wanderer,
Firm be his step through each wearisome mile,
Far from the cruel man, far from the plunderer,
Far from the track of the mean and the vile.
And when death, with the last of its terrors, assails him,
And all but the last throb of memory fails him,
He'll think of the friend, far away, that bewails him,
And light up the cold touch of death with a smile.
And there shall the dew shed its sweetness and lustre,
There for his pall shall the oak leaves be spread;
The sweet brier shall bloom, and the wild grape shall cluster,
And o'er him the leaves of the ivy be shed.
There shall they mix with the fern and the heather,
There shall the young eagle shed its first feather,
The wolves with his wild dogs shall lie there together,
And moan o'er the spot where the hunter is laid.
The Alpine Flowers.-MRS. SIGOURNEY.*
MEEK dwellers mid yon terror-stricken cliffs!
With brows so pure, and incense-breathing lips,
Whence are ye?-Did some white-winged messenger
On Mercy's missions trust your timid germ
To the cold cradle of eternal snows?
Or, breathing on the callous icicles,
Bid them with tear-drops nurse ye?—
Dare that drear atmosphere; no polar pine
Uprears a veteran front; yet there ye stand,
Leaning your cheeks against the thick-ribbed ice,
And looking up with brilliant eyes to Him
Who bids you bloom unblanched amid the waste
Of desolation. Man, who, panting, toils
O'er slippery steeps, or, trembling, treads the verge
Of yawning gulfs, o'er which the headlong plunge
Is to eternity, looks shuddering up,
And marks ye in your placid loveliness-
Fearless, yet frail—and, clasping his chill hands,
Blesses your pencilled beauty. 'Mid the pomp
Of mountain summits rushing on the sky,
* This piece is, perhaps, the finest of Mrs. Sigourney's poetry. It is in some respects so sublime, that it forcibly reminds us of Coleridge's Hymn before Sunrise in the Vale of Chamouny -ED
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