O what a glory doth this world put on
For him who, with a fervent heart, goes forth
Under the bright and glorious sky, and looks
On duties well performed, and days well spent! 
For him the wind, ay, and the yellow leaves,
Shall have a voice, and give him eloquent teachings. 
He shall so hear the solemn hymn that Death
Has lifted up for all, that he shall go
To his long resting-place without a tear.

WOODS IN WINTER.

When winter winds are piercing chill,
  And through the hawthorn blows the gale,
With solemn feet I tread the hill,
  That overbrows the lonely vale.

O’er the bare upland, and away
  Through the long reach of desert woods,
The embracing sunbeams chastely play,
  And gladden these deep solitudes.

Where, twisted round the barren oak,
  The summer vine in beauty clung,
And summer winds the stillness broke,
  The crystal icicle is hung.

Where, from their frozen urns, mute springs
  Pour out the river’s gradual tide,
Shrilly the skater’s iron rings,
  And voices fill the woodland side.

Alas! how changed from the fair scene,
  When birds sang out their mellow lay,
And winds were soft, and woods were green,
  And the song ceased not with the day!

But still wild music is abroad,
  Pale, desert woods! within your crowd;
And gathering winds, in hoarse accord,
  Amid the vocal reeds pipe loud.

Chill airs and wintry winds! my ear
  Has grown familiar with your song;
I hear it in the opening year,
  I listen, and it cheers me long.

HYMN OF THE MORAVIAN NUNS OF BETHLEHEM

At the consecration of PULASKI’S banner.

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
The crimson banner, that 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 battle-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.