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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
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 Has grown familiar with your song; I hear it in the opening year, —
I listen, and it cheers me long.
OF THE MORAVIAN NUNS OF BETHLEHEM,
AT THE CONSECRATION OF PULASKI'S BANNER.
WHEN the dying flame of day
Had been consecrated there.
And the nun's 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! God will prosper thee!
In the dark and trying hour,
In the rush of steeds and men,