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HYMN OF THE MORAVIAN NUNS.

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 vanquish'd 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.

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THE NIGHTINGALE FLOWER.

FAIR flower of silent night!

Unto thy bard an emblem thou shouldst be:
His fount of song, in hours of garish light,
Is closed like thee.

But, with the vesper hour,

Silence and solitude its depths unseal :
Its hidden springs, like thy unfolding flower,
Their life reveal.

268

THE NIGHTINGALE FLOWER.

Were it not sweeter still

To give imagination holier scope,

And deem that thus the future may fulfill
A loftier hope?

That, as thy lovely bloom

Sheds round its perfume at the close of day, With beauty sweeter from surrounding gloom, A star-like ray :—

So in life's last decline,

When the grave's shadows are around me cast, My spirit's hopes may like thy blossoms shine Bright at the last;

And, as the grateful scent

Of thy meek flower, the memory of my name! Oh! who could wish for prouder monument, Or purer fame?

The darkness of the grave

Would wear no gloom appalling to the sight, Might Hope's fair blossom, like thy flowret, brave Death's wintry night.

Knowing the dawn drew nigh

Of an eternal, though a sunless day,

Whose glorious flowers must bloom immortally, Nor fear decay!

A LAST REMEMBRANCE.

BY W. KENNEDY.

I NEVER more shall see thee,
Except as now I see,

In musings of the midnight hour,
While fancy revels free.

I shall never hear thy welcoming,
Nor clasp thy thrilling hand,
Nor view thy home, if e'er again
I seek our common land,

I have thee full before me,

Thy mild but mournful eye, And brow as fair as the cold moon That hears thy secret sigh. There are roses in thy window, As when I last was there;

But where has filed the matchless one
Thy young cheek used to wear?

Though parted, maid, long parted,
And not to meet again,

One star hath ruled the fate of both,
And sear'd our hearts with pain.
And though before the altar

I may not call thee bride, Accept a token of the bond By which we are allied.

I've found for thee an emblem
Of what hath fallen on me-

A leafless branch, that lately crown'd
A lightning stricken tree.

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A LAST REMEMBRANCE.

Torn from the pleasant stem it loved,
The severing scar alone
Remains, to show that e'er it grew
Where it for years had grown.

For pledges of affection

I'll give thee faded flowers;

And thou shalt send me wither'd leaves
From autumn's naked bowers.
The tears of untold bitterness

I'll drink instead of wine,
Carousing to thy broken peace-
Do thou as much for mine.

Whene'er a passing funeral
Presents its dark array,
For thee, my maiden desolate,
I will not fail to pray.
Beneath the quiet coffin-lid
"Twere better far to sleep,
Than live to nurse the scorpion Care
Within thy bosom deep.

The midnight wind is grieving;
Its melancholy swell

Doth make it meet to bear to thee
Thy lover's last farewell.

Farewell, pale child of hopelessness!
'Tis something still to know

That he who cannot claim thy heart,
Partakes of all its woe.

TO MAY.

BY LORD THURLOW.

MAY, queen of blossoms,
And fulfilling flowers,
With what pretty music

Shall we charm the hours?
Wilt thou have pipe and reed,
Blown in the open mead?
Or to the lute give heed
In the green bowers?

Thou hast no need of us,
Or pipe or wire,
That hast the golden bee
Ripen'd with fire;
And many thousand more
Songsters, that thee adore,
Filling earth's grassy floor
With new desire.

Thou hast thy mighty herds,
Tame, and free livers;
Doubt not, thy music too
In the deep rivers;
And the whole plumy flight,
Warbling the day and night-
Up at the gates of light,

See, the lark quivers!

When with the jacinth

Coy fountains are tress'd; And for the mournful bird

Green woods are dress'd, That did for Tereus pine; Then shall our songs be thine, To whom our hearts incline:

MAY, be thou bless'd!

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