Brother, sweet sister! peace around ye dwell:
Lyre, Sword, and Flower, farewell!*
THE DEATH-DAY OF KORNER.t
A SONG for the death-day of the brave-
A song of pride!
The youth went down to a hero's grave,
With the Sword, his bride.‡
He went, with his noble heart unworn,
And pure, and high;
An eagle stooping from clouds of morn,
Only to die.
He went with the lyre, whose lofty tone
Beneath his hand
Had thrill'd to the name of his God alone,
And his father-land.
And with all his glorious feelings yet
In their first glow,
Like a southern stream that no frost hath met
To chain its flow.
A song for the death-day of the brave-
For him that went to a hero's grave,
With the Sword, his bride.
He hath left a voice in his trumpet lays
To turn the flight,
And a guiding spirit for after days,
Like a watchfire's light.
And a grief in his father's soul to rest
'Midst all high thought;
*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 ein glazender Lohn.
Heil dem Brittischen Volke, wenn ihm das Deutschen icht fremd ist
Uber Lander und Meer reichen sich beyde die Hand.
† On reading part of a letter from Korner's father, addressed to Mr Richardson, the translator of his works, in which he speaks of "The Death-day of his son."
See The Sword Song, composed on the morning of his death.
AN HOUR OF ROMANCE.
And a memory unto his mother's breast,
With healing fraught.
And a name and fame above the blight
Of earthly breath,
Beautiful-beautiful and bright,
In life and death!
A song for the death-day of the brave-
A song of pride!
For him that went to a hero's grave,
With the Sword, his bride!
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 pictured 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 glowworm shed,
Came pouring through 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:
All sense of these things faded, as the spell
Breathing from that high gorgeous tale grew strong
On my chain'd soul:-'twas not the leaves I heard ;-
A Syrian wind the lion-banner stirr'd,
Through its proud floating folds :-'twas not the brook
Singing in secret through its glassy glen ;—
A wild shrill trumpet of the Saracen
Peal'd from the desert's lonely heart, and shook
*The Talisman-Tales of the Crusaders
The burning air. Like clouds when winds are high,
O'er glittering sands flew steeds of Araby,
And tents rose up, and sudden lance and spear
Flash'd where a fountain's diamond wave lay clear,
Shadow'd by graceful palm-trees. Then the shout
Of merry England's joy swell'd freely out,
Sent through an eastern heaven, whose glorious hue
Made shields dark mirrors to its depths of blue;
And harps were there-I heard their sounding strings,
As the waste echo'd to the mirth of kings.-
The bright mask faded. Unto life's worn track,
What call'd me from its flood of glory back?
A voice of happy childhood!-and they pass'd,
Banner, and harp, and Paynim's trumpet's blast;
Yet might I scarce bewail the splendors gone,
My heart so leap'd to that sweet laughter's tone.
A VOYAGER'S DREAM OF LAND.
"His very heart athirst
To gaze at nature in her green array,
Upon the ship's tall side he stands possess'd
With visions prompted by intense desire;
Fair fields appear below, such as he left
Far distant, such as he would die to find:
He seeks them headlong, and is seen no more." Cowper
THE hollow dash of waves!-the ceaseless roar!-
Silence, ye billows!-vex my soul no more.
There's a spring in the woods by my sunny home,
Afar from the dark sea's tossing foam;
Oh! the fall of that fountain sweet to hear,
As a song from the shore to the sailor's ear!
And the sparkle which up to the sun it throws,
Through the feathery fern and the olive boughs,
And the gleam on its path as it steals away
Into deeper shades from the sultry day,
And the large water-lilies that o'er its bed
Their pearly leaves to the soft light spread,
They haunt me! I dream of that bright spring's flow,
I thirst for its rills like a wounded roe!
Be still, thou sea-bird, with thy clanging cry!
My spirit sickens as thy wing sweeps by.
Know ye my home, with the lulling sound
Of leaves from the lime and the chestnut round?
Know ye it, brethren! where bower'd it lies,
Under the purple of southern skies?
With the streamy gold of the sun that shines
In through the cloud of its clustering vines,
And the summer breath of the myrtle flowers,
Borne from the mountain in dewy hours,
And the fire-fly's glance through the dark'ning shades
Like shooting stars in the forest glades,
And the scent of the citron at eve's dim fall
Speak! have ye known, have ye felt them all?
The heavy rolling surge! the rocking mast!
Hush! give my dream's deep music way, thou blast!
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 wood 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 call 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 chestnut forests, the rich and deep,
With the burden and glory of flowers that they bear,
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.
"Der rasche Kampf verewigt einen Mann:
Er falle gleich, so preiset ihn das Lied
Allein die Thranen, die unendlichen
Der überbliebnen, der verlass'nen Frau,
Zahlt keine Nachwelt."-Goethe.
WARRIOR! whose image on thy tomb,
With shield and crested head,
Sleeps proudly in the purple gloom
By the stain'd window shed;
The records of thy name and race
Have faded from the stone,
Yet through a cloud of years, I trace
What thou hast been and done.
A banner, from its flashing spear,
Flung out o'er many a fight;
A war-cry ringing far and clear,
And strong to turn the flight;
An arm that bravely bore the lance
On for the holy shrine;
A haughty heart and a kingly glance -
Chief! were not these things thine?
A lofty place were leaders sate
Around the council board;
In festive halls a chair of state
When the blood-red wine was pour'd A name that drew a prouder tone From herald, harp, and bard;
Surely these things were all thine own-
So hadst thou thy reward.
Woman! whose sculptured form at rest
By the arm'd knight is laid,
With meek hands folded o'er a breast
In matron robes array'd;
What was thy tale ?-Ŏ gentle mate
Of him, the bold and free,
Bound unto his victorious fate,
What bard hath sung of thee?
He woo'd a bright and burning star
Thine was the void, the gloom,
The straining eye that follow'd far
His fast receding plume;
The heart-sick listening while his steed
Sent echoes on the breeze;
The pang-but when did Fame take heed
Of griefs obscure as these?
Thy silent and secluded hours
Through many a lonely day
While bending o'er thy broider'd flowers,
With spirits far away;
Thy weeping midnight prayers for him
Who fought on Syrian plains,
Thy watchings till the torch grew dim-
These fill no minstrel strains.
A still, sad life was thine!-long years
With tasks unguerdon'd fraught-
Deep, quiet love, submissive tears,
Vigils of anxious thought;
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