HYMN 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.

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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
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 bills,

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26

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!

TO A CITY PIGEON

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TO A CITY PIGEON.

BY N. P. WILLIS.

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.