TO A BLANK SHEET OF PAPER
Satire may lift his bearded lance,
Forestalling Time's slow moving scythe,
And, scattered on thy little field,
Disjointed bards may writhe.
Perchance a vision of the night,
Some grizzled spectre, gaunt and thin,
Or sheeted corpse may stalk along,
Or skeleton may grin!
If it should be in pensive hour,
Some sorrow moving theme I try,
Ah maiden, how thy tears will fall,
For all I doom to die!
But if in merry mood I touch
Thy leaves, then shall the sight of thee Sow smiles as thick on rosy lips,
As ripples on the sea.
The Weekly press shall gladly stoop
To bind thee up among its sheaves;
The Daily steal thy shining ore,
To gild its leaden leaves.
Thou hast no tongue, yet thou canst speak,
Till distant shores shall hear the sound;
Thou hast no life, yet thou canst breathe
Fresh life on all around.
IIYMN OF THE MORAVIAN NUNS.
Thou art the arena of the wise,-
The noiseless battle-ground of fame,
The sky where halos may be wreathed
Around the humblest name.
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 nun's 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,
HYMN OF THE MORAVIAN NUNS.
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 would'st be spared.
Take thy banner !—and if e'er
Thou should'st 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!
Stoop to my window, thou beautiful dove!
Thy daily visits have touched my love!
I watch thy coming, and list the note
That swells so low in thy mellow throat,
And my joy is high,
To catch the glance of thy gentle eye.
Why dost thou sit on the heated eaves,
And forsake the wood with its freshened leaves?
Why dost thou haunt the sultry street,
When the paths of the forest are cool and sweet?
And canst thou bear
This noise of people—this breezeless air?
Thou alone of the feathered race,
Dost look unscared on the human face;
Thou alone, with a wing to flee,
Doth love with man in his haunts to be;
And the 'gentle dove,'
Has become a name for trust and love.
A holy gift is thine, sweet bird!
Thou'rt named with childhood's earliest word;
Thou'rt linked with all that is fresh and wild
In the prisoned thoughts of the city child-
And thy even wings
Are its brighest image of moving things.
It is no light chance. Thou art set apart
Wisely by Him who tamed thy heart-
To stir the love for the bright and fair,
That else were sealed in the crowded air;
I sometimes dream
Angelic rays from thy pinions stream.
Come, then, even when daylight leaves
The page I read, to my humble eaves;
And wash thy breast in the hollow spout
And murmur thy low sweet music out,―
I hear and see
Lessons of heaven, sweet bird, in thee!
Would that thou wert more strong, at least less fair
Land of the orange grove and myrtle bower!
To hail whose strand, to breathe whose genial air
Is bliss to all who feel of bliss the power.
To look upon whose mountains in the hour
When thy sun sinks in glory, and a veil
Of purple flows around them, would restore
The sense of beauty, when all else might fail.
Would that thou wert more strong, at least less fair, Parent of fruits, alas! no more of men!
Where springs the olive e'en from mountains bare,
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