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,
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.

Our readers will begin to think that we have given them poetry enough for once; but we can assure them that there is much behind not inferior in merit to the best that we have quoted. The following exquisite lines are by the Rev. Mr. Peabody, of Springfield.

TO WILLIAM.-WRITTEN BY A BEREAVED FATHER.

It seems but yesterday, my love, thy little heart beat high;
And I had almost scorned the voice that told me thou must die.
I saw thee move with active bound, with spirits wild and free,
And infant grace and beauty gave their glorious charm to thee.

Far on the sunny plains, I saw thy sparkling footsteps fly,
Firm, light, and graceful, as the bird that cleaves the morning sky;
And often, as the playful breeze waved back thy shining hair,
Thy cheek displayed the red rose tint that Health had painted there.
And then, in all my thoughtlessness, I could not but rejoice,
To hear upon the morning wind the music of thy voice,-
Now echoing in the rapturous laugh, now sad almost to tears;
"Twas like the sounds I used to hear, in old and happier years.

Thanks for that memory to thee, my little lovely boy,—

That memory of my youthful bliss, which Time would fain destroy. I listened, as the mariner suspends the out-bound oar,

To taste the farewell gale that breathes from off his native shore.

So gentle in thy loveliness!-alas! how could it be,
That Death would not forbear to lay his icy hand on thee;
Nor spare thee yet a little while, in childhood's opening bloom,
While many a sad and weary soul was longing for the tomb?

Was mine a happiness too pure for erring man to know?
Or why did Heaven so soon destroy my paradise below?
Enchanting as the vision was, it sunk away as soon

As when, in quick and cold eclipse, the sun grows dark at noon.

I loved thee, and my heart was blessed; but, ere that day was spent, I saw thy light and graceful form in drooping illness bent,

And shuddered as I cast a look upon thy fainting head;

The mournful cloud was gathering there, and life was almost fled.

Days passed; and soon the seal of death made known that hope was vain;
I knew the swiftly-wasting lamp would never burn again;
The cheek was pale; the snowy lips were gently thrown apart;
And life, in every passing breath, seemed gushing from the heart.

I knew those marble lips to mine should never more be pressed,
And floods of feeling, undefined, rolled wildly o'er my breast;
Low, stifled sounds, and dusky forms, seemed moving in the gloom,
As if Death's dark array were come to bear thee to the tomb.

And when I could not keep the tear from gathering in my eye,
Thy little hand pressed gently mine in token of reply;

To ask one more exchange of love, thy look was upward cast,
And in that long and burning kiss thy happy spirit passed.

I never trusted to have lived to bid farewell to thee,
And almost said, in agony, it ought not so to be;

I hoped that thou within the grave my weary head shouldst lay,
And live beloved, when I was gone, for many a happy day.

With trembling hand I vainly tried thy dying eyes to close;
And almost envied, in that hour, thy calm and deep repose;
For I was left in loneliness, with pain and grief oppressed,
And thou wast with the sainted, where the weary are at rest.

Yes, I am sad and weary now; but let me not repine,
Because a spirit, loved so well, is earlier blessed than mine;
My fate may darken as it will, I shall not much deplore,
Since thou art where the ills of life can never reach thee more.

The Disembodied Spirit, by the same writer, is equally beautiful in a higher strain.

THE DISEMBODIED SPIRIT.

O sacred star of evening, tell
In what unseen, celestial sphere,
Those spirits of the perfect dwell,
Too pure to rest in sadness here.

Roam they the crystal fields of light,
O'er paths by holy angels trod,
Their robes with heavenly lustre bright,
Their home, the Paradise of God?

Soul of the just! and canst thou soar
Amidst those radiant spheres sublime,
Where countless hosts of Heaven adore,
Beyond the bounds of space or time?—

And canst thou join the sacred choir,

Through heaven's high dome the song to raise,
Where seraphs strike the golden lyre
In everduring notes of praise?

Oh! who would heed the chilling blast,
That blows o'er time's eventful sea,

If bid to hail, its perils past,

The bright wave of eternity?

And who the sorrows would not bear
Of such a transient world as this,
When hope displays, beyond its care,
So bright an entrance into bliss?

If our limits permitted, we would gladly give some specimens from the works of several other writers of merited distinction, who occupy a large space in the volume, such as Brainard, Hillhouse, Pierpont, Sigourney, Sprague, and Whittier. Many of the anonymous pieces have a great deal of merit. We presume that the authorship of them belongs, in part, to the accomplished editor. There are also many poems of great beauty by writers whose attention has been principally directed to other pursuits. Among them may be mentioned the Dirge of Alaric the Goth, by Edward Everett, and the Paint King, by Washington Allston, which are too well known to require to be extracted, with a number of very agreeable pieces by the Rev. Mr. Greenwood, and Professors Norton, H. Ware, and Frisbie. The Castle in the Air, which we quote below, is a pleasing specimen of the manner of the last of these writers, whose early and lamented death was one of the severest losses that have yet occurred to the rising literature and philosophy of our country. We conclude by recommending the volume as a choice regale to the lovers of good poetry. The fine taste displayed in the selection of the contents, and the unexceptionable purity of moral sentiment that distinguishes them in every part, render it particularly suitable for the use of colleges, academies, and schools, in which we trust it will obtain a general circulation.

A CASTLE IN THE AIR.

I'll tell you, friend, what sort of wife,
Whene'er I scan this scene of life,
Inspires my waking schemes,
And when I sleep, with form so light,
Dances before my ravished sight,
In sweet aerial dreams.

The rose its blushes need not lend,
Nor yet the lily with them blend,
To captivate my eyes.

Give me a cheek the heart obeys,
And, sweetly mutable, displays
Its feelings as they rise;

Features, where pensive, more than gay,
Save when a rising smile doth play,
The sober thought you see;
Eyes, that all soft and tender seem,
And kind affections round them beam,
But most of all on me;

A form, though not of finest mould,
Where yet a something you behold
Unconsciously doth please;
Manners, all graceful without art,
That to each look and word impart
A modesty and ease.

But still her air, her face, each charm,
Must speak a heart with feeling warm,
And mind inform the whole;

With mind her mantling cheek must glow,
Her voice, her beaming eye must show
An all-inspiring soul.

Ah! could I such a being find,
And were her fate to mine but joined

By Hymen's silken tie,

To her myself, my all I'd give,
For her alone delighted live,
For her consent to die.

Whene'er by anxious gloom oppressed,
On the soft pillow of her breast

My aching head I'd lay ;

At her sweet smile each care should cease,
Her kiss infuse a balmy peace,

And drive my griefs away.

In turn, I'd soften all her care,

Each thought, each wish, each feeling share;
Should sickness e'er invade,

My voice should soothe each rising sigh,
My hand the cordial should supply;
I'd watch beside her bed.

Should gathering clouds our sky deform,
My arms should shield her from the storm;
And, were its fury hurled,
My bosom to its bolts I'd bare,
In her defence undaunted dare
Defy the opposing world.

Together should our prayers ascend,
Together humbly would we bend,
To praise the Almighty name;
And when I saw her kindling eye
Beam upwards to her native sky,

My soul should catch the flame.

Thus nothing should our hearts divide,
But on our years serenely glide,
And all to love be given;

And, when life's little scene was o'er,
We'd part to meet and part no more,
But live and love in Heaven.