To the depths of the woods, where the shadows rest, To the rocks that resound with the water's play I hear the sweet laugh of my fount-give way! Give way!—the booming surge, the tempest's roar, THE GRAVE OF KÖRNER. Charles Theodore Körner, the celebrated young German poet and soldier, was killed in a skirmish with a detachment of French troops, on the 20th of August 1813, a few hours after the composition of his popular piece, "The Sword Song." He was buried at the village of Wöbbelin in Mecklenburg, under a beautiful oak, in a recess of which he had frequently deposited verses composed by him while campaigning in its vicinity. The monument erected to his memory is of cast iron, and the upper part is wrought into a lyre and a sword, a favorite emblem of Körner's, from which one of his works had been entitled. Near the grave of the poet is that of his only sister, who died of grief for his loss, having only survived him long enough to complete his portrait, and a drawing of his burial place. Over the gate of the cemetery is engraved one of his own lines. "Vergiss die treuen Tödten nicht." See Downes's Letters from Mecklenburg, and Körner's Prosaische Aufsätze, von C. A. Tiedge. GREEN wave the oak forever o'er thy rest, Thou that beneath its crowning foliage sleepest, And, in the stillness of thy country's breast, Thy place of memory, as an altar, keepest; Brightly thy spirit o'er her hills was pour'd, Rest, Bard, rest, Soldier!--by the father's hand In the hush'd presence of the glorious dead. The oak wav'd proudly o'er thy burial rite, On thy crown'd bier to slumber warriors bore thee, And with true hearts thy brethren of the fight Wept as they vail'd their drooping banners o'er thee; And the deep guns with rolling peal gave token, That Lyre and Sword were broken. Thou hast a hero's tomb-a lowlier bed Is hers, the gentle girl beside thee lying, * The poems of Körner, which were chiefly devoted to the cause of his country, are strikingly distinguished by religious feelings, and a confidence in the Supreme Justice for the final deliverance of Germany. The gentle girl, that bow'd her fair young head, When thou wert gone, in silent sorrow dying. Brother, true friend! the tender and the braveShe pin'd to share thy grave. Fame was thy gift from others--but for her, And in your early deaths divided not. It was thy spirit, brother! which had made The bright world glorious to her thoughtful eye, Since first in childhood 'midst the vines ye play'd, And sent glad singing through the free blue sky. Ye were but two-and when that spirit pass'd, Woe to the one, the last! Woe, yet not long-she linger'd but to trace Once, once again to see that buried face But smile upon her, ere she went to rest. Too sad a smile! its living light was o'erIt answer'd hers no more. The earth grew silent when thy voice departed, The home too lonely whence thy step had fled— What then was left for her, the faithful-hearted ?— Death, death, to still the yearning for the dead. Softly she perish'd-be the Flower deplor'd, Here with the Lyre and Sword. Have ye not met ere now? -so let those trust |