“ 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 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."

The warrior took that banner proud,

And it was his martial cloak and shroud!

SUNRISE ON THE HILLS.

I stood upon the hills, when heaven's wide arch Was glorious with the sun's returning march, And woods were brightened, and soft gales Went forth to kiss the sun-clad vales.

The clouds were far beneath me; bathed in

light, They gathered midway round the wooded

height, And, in their fading-glory, shone Like hosts in battle overthrown,

As many a pinnacle, with shifting glance, Through the gray mist thrust up its shattered

lance, And rocking on the cliff was left The dark pine blasted, bare, and cleft. The veil of cloud was lifted, and below Glowed the rich valley, and the river's flow Was darkened by the forest's shade, Or glistened in the white cascade; Where upward, in the mellow blush of day, The noisy bittern wheeled his spiral way.

I heard the distant waters dash, I saw the current whirl and flash,And richly, by the blue lake's silver beach, The woods were bending with a silent reach. Then o'er the vale, with gentle swell, The music of the village bell Came sweetly to the echo-giving hills;

And the wild horn, whose voice the woodland

fills, Was ringing to the merry shout, That faint and far the glen sent out, Where, answering to the sudden shot, thin

smoke, Through thick-leaved branches, from the dingle

broke.

If thou art worn and hard beset

With sorrows, that thou wouldst forget,
If thou wouldst read a lesson, that will keep
Thy heart from fainting and thy soul from sleep,
Go to the woods and hills!— No tears

Dim the sweet look that Nature wears.

THE SPIRIT OF POETRY.

THERE is a quiet spirit in these woods,
That dwells where'er the gentle south-wind

blows;
Where, underneath the white-thorn, in the glade,
The wild-flowers bloom, or, kissing the soft air,
The leaves above their sunny palms outspread.
With what a tender and impassioned voice
It fills the nice and delicate ear of thought,
When the fast-ushering star of morning comes