The wearied wing hath gained a tree, pain sighs itself
And beauty's bridegroom lies upon the pillow of her breast.
There is a feeling in that hour which tumult ne'er hath known,
Which nature seems to dedicate to silent things alone; The spirit of the lonely wakes, as rising from the dead, And finds its shroud adorned with flowers, its nightlamp newly fed.
The mournful moon her rainbows hath, and 'mid the blight of all
That garlands life, some blossoms live, like lilies on a pall;
Thus while to lone affliction's couch some strangerjoy may come,
The bee that hoardeth sweets all day hath sadness in its hum.
Yet some there are whose fire of years leaves no remembered spark,
Whose summer-time itself is bleak, whose very daybreak dark.
The stem, though naked, still may live, the leaf, though perished, cling;
But if at first the root be cleft, it lies a branchless thing.
And oh! to such, long, hallowed nights their patient music send;
The hours like drooping angels walk, more graceful as they bend;
And stars emit a hope-like ray, that melts as it comes nigh,
And nothing in that calm hath life that doth not wish
THE Voice of thy streams in my spirit I bear,
Farewell! and a blessing be with thee, green land!
On thy halls, on thy hearths, on thy pure mountain air,
On the strings of the harp and the minstrel's free hand!
From the love of my soul with my tears it is shed,
Whilst I leave thee, oh land of my home and my dead!
I bless thee! yet not for the beauty which dwells
In the heart of thy hills, on the waves of thy shore;
And not for the memory set deep in thy dells
Of the bard and the warrior, the mighty of yore;
And not for thy songs of those proud ages fled,
Green land, poet land of my home and my dead!
I bless thee for all the true bosoms that beat
Where'er a low hamlet smiles under thy skies;
For thy peasant hearths burning the stranger to greet,
For the soul that looks forth from thy children's kind
eyes!
May the blessing, like sunshine, around thee be spread,
Green land of my childhood, my home, and my dead!
THE Rhine! the Rhine!-May on thy flowing river The sun for ever shine!
And on thy banks may freedom's light fade never !---
Be blessings on the Rhine!
The Rhine! the Rhine !-My fancy still is straying,
To dream of Wilhelmine,
Of auburn locks in balmy zephyrs playing :-
Be blessings on the Rhine!
The German knight the lance has bravely broken
By lofty Schreckenstein;
The German maid the tale of love has spoken
Beside the flowery Rhine;
With patriot zeal the gallant Swiss is fired,
Beside that stream of thine;
The dull Batavian, on thy banks inspired,
Shouts,-Freedom! and the Rhine!-
And shall we fear the threat of foreign foeman?—
Though Europe should combine,-
The fiery Frank, the Gaul, the haughty Roman,
Found graves beside the Rhine.-
Germania's sons, fill, fill your foaming glasses
With Hochheim's sparkling wine,
And drink, while life, and love, and beauty passes,-
Be blessings on the Rhine!
WILL then no pitying sword its succour lend
The Gladiator's mortal throes to end?
To free th' unconquered mind, whose generous power
Triumphs o'er nature in her saddest hour!
Bowed low, and full of death, his head declines,
Yet o'er his brow indignant valour shines;
Still glares his closing eye with angry light,
Now glares, now darkens, with approaching night.
Think not with terror heaves that sinewy breast,—
'Tis vengeance visible, and pain suppressed;
Calm in despair, in agony sedate,
His proud soul wrestles with o'ermastering fate;
That pang the conflict ends !-he falls not yet,
Seems every nerve for one last effort set,
At once by death, death's lingering power to brave,
He will not sink, but plunge into the grave;
Exhaust his mighty heart in one last sigh,
And rally life's whole energy to die!
Unfeared is now that cord which oft ensnared
The baffled rival whom his falchion spared;
Those clarions mute, which on the murderous stage
Roused him to deeds of more than martial rage;
Once poised by peerless might, once dear to fame,
The shield which could not guard, supports his frame;
His fixed eye dwells upon the faithless blade,
As if in silent agony he prayed:-
"Oh might I yet, by one avenging blow,
Not shun my fate, but share it with my foe!"
Vain hope! the streams of life-blood fast descend,
That giant arm's upbearing strength must bend;
Yet shall he scorn, procumbent, to betray
One dastard sign of anguish or dismay;
With one weak plaint to shame his parting breath,
In pangs sublime, magnificent in death!
But his were deeds unchronicled; his tomb
No patriot wreaths adorn, to cheer his doom;
No soothing thoughts arise of duties done,
Of trophied conquests for his country won;
And he, whose sculptured form gave deathless fame
To Ctesilas-he dies without a name!
Haply to grace some Caesar's pageant pride
The hero-slave or hireling champion died;
When Rome, degenerate Rome, for barbarous shows
Bartered her virtue, glory, and repose;
Sold all that freemen prize as great and good,
For pomp of death, and theatres of blood!
HYMN OF THE MORAVIAN NUNS,
AT THE CONSECRATION OF PULASKI'S BANNER.
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,
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