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Hymned thanks, and beadsmen praying,
THE HOMES OF ENGLAND.
The stately homes of England,
How beautiful they stand !
O’er all the pleasant land !
Through shade and sunny gleam,
Of some rejoicing stream.
The merry homes of England !
Around their hearths by night,
Meet in the ruddy light.
Or childhood's tale is told ;
Some glorious page of old.
The blessed homes of England !
How softly on their bowers Is laid the holy quietness
That breathes from Sabbath-hours ! Solemn, yet sweet, the church-bell's chime
Floats through their woods at morn, All other sounds in that still time
Of breeze and leaf are born.
The cottage homes of England !
By thousands on her plains,
And round the hamlet-fanes.
Each from its nook of leaves; And fearless there the lowly sleep,
As the bird beneath their eaves.
The free fair homes of England !
Long, long in hut and hall
To guard each hallowed wall.
And bright the flowery sod,
Its country and its God.
THE GRAVE OF KÖRNER. CHARLES THEODORE KORNER, the celebrated young Ger
man poet and soldier, was killed in a skirmish with a detachment of French troops, on the 20th August, 1813, a
few hours after the composition of his popular piece,
GREEN wave the Oak for ever o'er thy rest !
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.
Fame was thy gift from others—but for her
Her own blest place by thee.
It was thy spirit, Brother! which had made
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.