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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
When thou wert gone, in silent sorrow dying.
Fame was thy gift from others;—but for her,
To whom the wide world held that only spot,
Thou hast thine oak, thy trophy:-what hath she?
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
But smile upon her, ere she went to rest.
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
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,
Heil dem Brittischen Volke, wenn ihm das Deutsche nicht fremd ist!
Theodor Korner's Vater.
AN HOUR OF ROMANCE.
To this sweet place for quiet. Every tree,
THERE were thick leaves above me and around,
And low sweet sighs, like those of childhood's
Amidst their dimness, and a fitful sound
As of soft showers on water ;-dark and deep
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
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
The Talisman-Tales of the Crusaders.