Oh! the glad sounds of the joyous earth!
The notes of the singing cicala's mirth,
The murmurs that live in the mountain-pines,
The sighing of reeds as the day declines,
The wings flitting home through the crimson glow
That steeps the woods when the sun is low,
The voice of the night-bird that sends a thrill
To the heart of the leaves when the winds are

still-
I hear them !-around me they rise, they swell,
They claim back my spirit with Hope to dwell,
They come with a breath from the fresh spring-

time, And waken my youth in its hour of prime.

The white foam dashes high-away, away,
Shroud my green land no more, thou blinding spray!

It is there !-down the mountains I see the sweep
Of the chesnut forests, the rich and deep;
With the burden and glory of flowers that they

wear, Floating upborne on the blue summer-air, And the light pouring through them in tender

gleams, And the flashing forth of a thousand streams. -Hold me not, brethren, I go, I go, To the hills of my youth, where the myrtles

blow,

To the depths of the woods, where the shadows

rest,
Massy and still, on the greensward's breast,
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 sea-bird's wail, shall vex my soul no more.

1

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 favourite emblem of Körner's, from which one of his works had been entitled. Near the grave of the poet is that of bis 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.”

“Forget not the faithful Dead.” See Downes's Letters from Mecklenburg, and Körner's Prosaische Aufsätze, von C. A. Tiedge.

66

GREEN wave the oak for ever 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,

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 vaild 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 gentle girl, that bow'd her fair young head,

When thou wert gone, in silent sorrow dying.
Brother, true friend! the tender and the brave-

She pined to share thy grave.

* 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.

Fame was thy gift from others—but for her,

To whom the wide world held that only spotShe loved theelovely in your lives ye were,

And in your early deaths divided not. Thou hast thine oak, thy trophy-what hath she ?

-Her own blest place by thee!

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 ylad 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 innage 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 fledWhat 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,