few hours after the composition of his popular piece, “ The Sword Song." He was buried at the village of Wobbelin, in Mecklenburgh, 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 beneath this tree is of cast-iron, and the upper part is wrought into a Lyre and Sword, a favourite emblem of Korner'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 Todten nicht."_" Forget not the faithful Dead.See Downes's Letters from Mecklenburgh, and Korner's Prosaische Aufsatze, &c. Von C. 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 poured,

Thou of the Lyre and Sword !

1

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 hushed 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 crowned bier to slumber warriors bore

thee;

And with true hearts, thy brethren of the fight Wept as they vailed 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 bowed 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 earth 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 blest place by thee. It was thy spirit, Brother! which had made The bright world glorious to her thoughtful eye, Since first in childhood ʼmidst the vines ye played, And sent glad singing through the free blue sky ! Ye were but two and when that spirit passed,

Wo to the one, the last !

Wo, yet not long !--She lingered 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 answered 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 perished—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 !

THE VOICE OF SPRING.

I COME, I come ! ye have call'd me long,
I come o'er the mountains with light and song !
Ye may trace my step o'er the wakening earth,
By the winds which tell of the violet's birth,
By the primrose-stars in the shadowy grass,
By the green leaves opening as I pass.

I have breathed on the South, and the chestnut

flowers, By thousands, have burst from the forest-bowers, And the ancient graves, and the fallen fanes, Are veil'd with wreaths on Italian plains.

But it is not for me, in my hour of bloom, To speak of the ruin or the tomb !

I have pass'd o'er the hills of the stormy North,
And the larch has hung all his tassels forth,
The fisher is out on the sunny sea,
And the rein-deer bounds through the pasture free,
And the pine has a fringe of softer green,
And the moss looks bright where my step has been.

I have sent through the wood-paths a gentle sigh,
And call'd out each voice of the deep-blue sky,
From the night-bird's lay through the starry time,
In the groves of the soft Hesperian clime,
To the swan's wild note by the Iceland lakes,
When the dark fir-bough into verdure breaks.

From the streams and founts I have loosed the

chain ; They are sweeping on to the silvery main, They are flashing down from the mountain-brows, They are flinging spray on the forest-boughs, They are bursting fresh from their sparry caves, And the earth resounds with the joy of waves.

Come forth, O ye children of gladness, come!
Where the violets lie may be now your home.
Ye of the rose-cheek and dew-bright eye,
And the bounding footstep to meet me fly,
With the lyre, and the wreath, and the joyous lay,
Come forth to the sunshine, I may not stay!
The summer is hastening, on soft winds borne,
Ye may press the grape, ye may bind the corn;

For me I depart to a brighter shore,
Ye are marked by care, ye are mine no more.

go where the loved who have left you dwell, And the flowers are not Death's,-fare ye well,

farewell !

MISS LANDON.

BALLAD OF CRESENTIUS.

I look'd

upon

his brow,—no sign
Of guilt or fear was there,
He stood as proud by that death-shrine

As even o'er Despair
He had a power ; in his eye
There was a quenchless energy,

A spirit that could dare
The deadliest form that Death could take,
And dare it for the daring's sake.

He stood, the fetters on his hand,

He raised them haughtily ;
And had that grasp been on the brand,

It could not wave on high
With freer pride than it waved now ;
Around he looked with changeless brow

On many a torture nigh ;
The rack, the chain, the axe, the wheel,
And, worst of all, his own red steel.