24 TO A BLANK SHEET OF PAPER Satire may lift his bearded lance, Perchance a vision of the night, If it should be in pensive hour, 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 Thou hast no tongue, yet thou canst speak, IIYMN OF THE MORAVIAN NUNS. Thou art the arena of the wise,- 25 HYMN OF THE MORAVIAN NUNS. AT THE CONSECRATION OF PULASKI'S BANNER. BY H. W. LONGFELLOW. [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 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 26 HYMN OF THE MORAVIAN NUNS. When the spear in conflict shakes, Take thy banner!-and beneath Take thy banner!--but when night 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, Martial cloak and shroud for thee! And the warrior took that banner proud, And it was his martial cloak and shroud! TO A CITY PIGEON. 27 TO A CITY PIGEON. BY N. P. WILLIS. Stoop to my window, thou beautiful dove! To catch the glance of thy gentle eye. Why dost thou sit on the heated eaves, When the paths of the forest are cool and sweet? This noise of people—this breezeless air? Thou alone of the feathered race, Doth love with man in his haunts to be; Has become a name for trust and love. A holy gift is thine, sweet bird! Thou'rt named with childhood's earliest word; In the prisoned thoughts of the city child- Are its brighest image of moving things. It is no light chance. Thou art set apart Angelic rays from thy pinions stream. Come, then, even when daylight leaves Lessons of heaven, sweet bird, in thee! ITALY. BY E. D. GRIFFIN. Would that thou wert more strong, at least less fair 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, |