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| | 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, | 5 |
| Where before the altar hung | |
| That proud banner, which with prayer | |
| Had been consecrated there. | |
| And the nuns’ sweet hymn was heard the while, | |
| Sung low in the dim mysterious aisle. | 10 |
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| 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 | 15 |
| 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 war-cloud’s encircling wreath, | 20 |
| 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, | 25 |
| 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, | 30 |
| 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 | 35 |
| 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! | 40 |
| |
| And the warrior took that banner proud, | |
| And it was his martial cloak and shroud. | |
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