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,
Thou of the Lyre and Sword!

Rest, bard! rest, soldier!-by the father's hand
Here shall the child of after years be led,
With his wreath-offering silently to stand
In the hush'd presence of the glorious dead.
Soldier and bard! for thou thy path hast trod
With freedom and with God.

The oak waved 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 lyingThe 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 pined to share thy grave.

Fame was thy gift from others;-but for her, To whom the wide world held that only spot, She loved thee!-lovely in your lives ye were, And in your early deaths divided not.

Thou hast thine oak, thy trophy:-What hath she? Her own bless'd place by thee!

It was thy spirit, brother, which had made

The bright earth glorious to her youthful 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
Thine image from the image in her breast-
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'er-
It 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 deplored
Here with the Lyre and Sword!

Have ye not met ere now? -so let those trust
That meet for moments but to part for years—
That weep, watch, pray, to hold back dust from dust-
That love, where love is but a fount of tears.
Brother, sweet sister! peace around ye dwell:
Lyre, Sword, and Flower, farewell!!

1 The following lines, recently addressed to the author of the above, by the venerable father of Körner, who, with the mother, still survives the "Lyre, Sword, and Flower," here commemo rated, may not be uninteresting to the German reader.

THE DEATH-DAY OF KÖRNER.1

A SONG for the death-day of the brave-
A song of pride!

The youth went down to a hero's grave,
With the Sword, his bride."

He went, with his noble heart unworn,
And pure, and high;

An eagle stooping from clouds of morn,
Only to die.

He went with the lyre, whose lofty tone
Beneath his hand

Had thrill'd to the name of his God alone,
And his father-land.

Wohllaut tönt aus der Ferne von freundlichen Lüften getragen
Schmeichelt mit lindernder Kraft sich in der Trauernden Ohr,
Stärkt den erhebenden Glauben an solcher seelen Verwandschaft,
Die zum Tempel die brust nur für das Würdige weihn.
Aus dem Lande zu dem sich stets der gefeyerte Jungling
Hingezogen gefühlt, wird ihm ein gläzender Lohn.

Heil dem Brittischen Volke, wenn ihm das Deutsche nicht fremd ist!
Uber Länder und Meer reichen sich beyde die Hand.

Theodor Körner's Vater.

1 On reading part of a letter from Körner's father, addressed to Mr. Richardson, the translator of his works, in which he speaks of "The Death-day of his son."

2 See The Sword Song, composed on the morning of his death.

And with all his glorious feelings yet
In their first glow,

Like a southern stream that no frost hath met To chain its flow.

A song for the death-day of the brave

A song of pride!

For him that went to a hero's grave,
With the Sword, his bride.

He hath left a voice in his trumpet lays
To turn the flight,

And a guiding spirit for after days,

Like a watchfire's light.

And a grief in his father's soul to rest,
'Midst all high thought;

And a memory unto his mother's breast
With healing fraught.

And a name and fame above the blight
Of earthly breath,
Beautiful-beautiful and bright,

In life and death!

A song for the death-day of the brave

A song of pride!

For him that went to a hero's grave,

With the Sword, his bride!

AN HOUR OF ROMANCE.

"I come

To this sweet place for quiet. Every tree
And bush, and fragrant flower, and hilly path,
And thymy mound that flings unto the winds
Its morning incense, is my friend."

BARRY CORNWALL.

THERE were thick leaves above me and around,
And low sweet sighs like those of childhood's sleep,
Amidst their dimness, and a fitful sound

As of soft showers on water;-dark and deep
Lay the oak shadows o'er the turf, so still
They seem'd but pictured glooms; a hidden rill
Made music, such as haunts us in a dream,
Under the fern tufts; and a tender gleam
Of soft green light, as by the glowworm shed,
Came pouring through the woven beech-boughs
down,

And steep'd the magic page wherein I read
Of royal chivalry and old renown,
A tale of Palestine.'-Meanwhile the bee

Swept past me with a tone of summer hours,
A drowsy bugle, wafting thoughts of flowers,
Blue skies, and amber sunshine: brightly free,
On filmy wings, the purple dragon-fly
Shot glancing like a fairy javelin by;
And a sweet voice of sorrow told the dell
Where sat the lone wood-pigeon:

1 The Talisman-Tales of the Crusaders.