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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 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."

"Forget not the faithful Dead.” See Downes's Letters from Mecklenburg, and Körner's Prosaische Aufsätze, don U. A. Tiedge.

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 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. VOL. II.




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 veil'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 tombwa 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. Fame was thy gift from others--but for her,

To whom the wide world held that only
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 blest place by three !
It was thy spirit, brother ! which had made

The bright world glorious to her thoughtful eye,
Since first in childhood 'midst the vinos ye play'd,

And sent glad singing through the free blue sky.
Ye were but two—and when that spirit pass'd,

Wo, to the one, the last!
Wo, 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 auswer'd hers no more.
The earth grew silent when thy voice departed,

The home too lonely whence thy step kad 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 Swoid. 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


dwell Lyre, Sworch, and Flower, farewell!




They grew in beauty, side by side,

They fill'd one home with gleeTheir graves are sever'd far and wide,

By mount, and stream, and sea.
The same fond mother bent at night

O'er each fair sleeping brow;
She had each folded flower in sight-

Where are those dreamers now?
One, 'midst the forests of the West,

By a dark stream is laid-
The Indian knows his place of rest,

Far in the cedar shade,
The sea, the blue lone sea, hath one,

He lies where pearls lie deep-
He was the loved of all, yet none

O'er his low bed may weep.
One sleeps where southern vines are drest,

Above the noble slain ;
He wrapt his colours round his breast,

On a blood-red field of Spain.
And one-o'er her the myrtle showers

Its leaves, by soft winds fann'd;
She faded 'midst Italian flowers,

The last of that bright band.
And parted thus they rest, who play'd

Beneath the same green tree ;
Whose voices mingled as they pray'd

Around one parent knee !
They that with smiles lit up the hall,

And cheer'd with song the hearth-
Alas! for love, if thou wert all,

And naught beyond, Oh earth!






Go to the forest shade,

Seek thou the well-known glade
Where, heavy with sweet dew, the violets lie ;

Gleaming through moss-tufts deep,

Like dark eyes fill'd with sleep,
And bathed in hues of summer's midnight sky.

Bring me their buds, to shed

Around my dying bed
A breath of May, and of the wood's repose ;

For 1, in sooth, depart

With a reluctant heart, That fain would linger where the bright sun glows.

Fain would I stay with thee

Alas! this must not be ;
Yet bring me still the gifts of happier hours !

Go where the fountain's breast

Catches, in glassy rest, The dim green light that pours through laurel bowers.

I know how softly bright,

Steep'd in that tender light,
The water-lilies tremble there, e'en now ;

Go to the pure stream's edge,

And from its whispering sedge
Bring me those flowers, to cool my fever'd brow.

Then, as in hope's young days,

Track thou the antique maze or the rich garden, to its grassy mound;

There is a lone wbite rose,

Shedding, in sudden snows,
Its faint leaves o'er the emerald turf around.

Well know'st thou that fair tree !

-A murmur of the bee
Dwells ever in the honey'd lime above ;

Bring me one pearly flower,

Of all its clustering shower
For on that spot we first reveald our love !



Gather one woodbine bough,

Then, from the lattice low
Of the bower'd cottage which I bade thee mark,

When by the hamlet last

Through dim wood-lanes we pass'd,
Where dews were glancing to the glow-worm's spark.

Haste! to my pillow hear

Those fragrant things, and fair My hand no more may bind them up at eve;

Yet shall their odour soft

One bright dream round me waft, Of life, youth, summer-all that I must leave!

And oh ! if thou wouldst ask,

Wherefore thy steps I task
The grove, the stream, the hamlet-vale to trace ;

-"Tis that some thought of me,

When I am gone, may be The spirit bound to each iamiliar place.

I bid mine image dwell,'

(Oh! break thou not the spell!) In the deep wood and by the fountain side-

Thou must not, my beloved !

Rove where we two have roved, Forgetting her that in her spring-time died.

A MONARCH'S DEATH-BED. The Emperor Albert of Hapsburg, who was assassinated by his nephew, afterwards called John the Parricide, was left to die by the way-side, and was supported in his last moments by a female peasant who happened to be passing.

A MONARCH on his death-bed lay

Did censers waft perfume,
And soft lamps pour their silvery ray,

Through his proud chamber's gloom?
He lay upon a greensward bed,

Beneath a darkening sky-
A long tree waving o'er his head,
A swift stream rolling by.

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