For mortal purpose given; Nor may it fit my sober mood To sing of sweetly murmuring flood, That mock the bow of heaven. But, know, 'twas mine the secret power And led thee, when the storm was o'er, By dreadful calm oppressed; Which still, though not a breeze was there, Its mountain-billows heaved in air, As if a living thing it were, That strove in vain for rest. 'Twas I, when thou, subdued by wo, And, as they moved, in mournful train, And then, upraised thy streaming eye, In pomp of evening cloud, That, while with varying form it rolled, And last, as sunk the setting sun, O, then, with what aspiring gaze And think how wondrous, how sublime Omnipresence.-ANONYMOUS. THERE is an unseen Power around, Where treadeth man, where space is found, 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, In proud Belshazzar's gilded hall, When sinks the pious Christian's soul, The Power that watches, guides, defends, Till earth is nought,-nought, earthly friends,- 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 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 Take thy banner;—and if e'er And the warrior took that banner proud, The Raising of Jairus's Daughter.-N. A. REVIEW. THEY have watched her last and quivering breath, They have wrapped her in the robes of death, 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, Didst thou not close that expiring eye, 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 But listen! what name salutes her ear? "Jesus," she cries, "has no power here; * He leads the way to that cold white couch, And the fresh blood comes with roseate hue, Her form is raised, and her step is true, Departure of the Pioneer.-BRAINARD. FAR away from the hill-side, the lake and the hamlet, 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, |