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WITH what a glory comes and goes the year!
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, That on wild cherry and red cedar feeds, A winter bird, comes with its plaintive whistle, And pecks by the witch-hazel, whilst aloud From cottage roofs the warbling blue-bird sings, And merrily, with oft-repeated stroke, Sounds from the threshing-floor the busy flail.
Oh, what a glory doth this world put on
WOODS IN WINTER.
WHEN winter winds are piercing chill,
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,
And gladden these deep solitudes.
Where, twisted round the barren oak,
The summer vine in beauty clung, And summer winds the stillness broke,
The crystal icicle is hung.
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.
Line 11. And through the white-thorn blows the gale,
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
Has grown familiar with your song; I hear it in the opening year,
I listen, and it cheers me long.
HYMN OF THE MORAVIAN NUNS OF BETH
AT THE CONSECRATION OF PULASKI'S BANNER.
This poem was suggested by the following sentence in an article upon Count Casimir Pulaski in the North American Review for April, 1825 : “ The standard of his legion was formed of a piece of crimson silk embroidered by the Moravian nuns of Bethlehem in Pennsylvania.” The historical basis of the poem is discussed in a note at the end of this volume.
WHEN the dying flame of day
The crimson banner, that with prayer
“ Take thy banner! May it wave
“ Take thy banner! and, beneath
“ Take thy banner! But when night
Line 1. The blood-red banner, that with prayer
“ Take thy banner! and if e'er
Thou shouldst press the soldier's bier,
The warrior took that banner proud,
SUNRISE ON THE HILLS.
I STOOD upon the hills, when heaven's wide arch
Line 7. And the warrior took that banner proud,