« PreviousContinue »
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 !
Rest, Bard! rest, Soldier! –By the Father's hand,
With Freedom and with God!
The Oak waved proudly o'er thy burial-rite,
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
She pined to share thy grave.
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
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 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,
I have sent through the wood-paths a gentle sigh,
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!
For me I depart to a brighter shore,
go where the loved who have left you dwell, And the flowers are not Death's,-fare ye well,
BALLAD OF CRESENTIUS.
his brow,—no sign
As even o'er Despair
A spirit that could dare
He stood, the fetters on his hand,
He raised them haughtily ;
It could not wave on high
On many a torture nigh ;