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 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 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.

Fame was thy gift from others;—but for her,

To whom the wide world held that only spot,
She lov'd 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 thee!

It was thy spirit, brother! which had made

The bright earth glorious to her thoughtful eye, Since first in childhood midst the vines ye play'd, And sent glad singing thro' 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 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
That meet for moments but to part for years,
That
watch, pray,
weep,
to hold back dust from dust,
That love, where love is but a fount of tears.
Brother, sweet sister! peace around dwell-
Lyre, Sword, and Flower, farewell!*

ye

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

Wohllaut tont aus der Ferne von freundlichen Lüften getragen,
Schmeichelt mit lindernder Kraft sich in der Trauernden Ohr,
Starkt 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 cin glanzender Lohn.

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

Theodor Korner's Vater.

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 pictur'd 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 glow-worm shed,

Came pouring thro' 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:

But ere long,

All sense of these things faded, as the spell

Breathing from that high gorgeous tale grew strong chain'd soul:-'twas not the leaves I heard

On my
A Syrian wind the Lion-banner stirr'd,

The Talisman-Tales of the Crusaders.