Hymned thanks, and beadsmen praying,
With sheathed sword the urchin playing ;
Blazon'd hall with torches burning,
Cheerful morn in peace returning ;
Converse sweet that strangely borrows
Present bliss from former sorrows,
O who can tell each blessed sight and sound,
That says, He with us bides, our long, long lost is

found.

MRS HEMANS.

THE HOMES OF ENGLAND.

The stately homes of England,

How beautiful they stand !
Amidst their tall ancestral trees,

O’er all the pleasant land !
The deer across their greensward bound

Through shade and sunny gleam,
And the swan glides past them with the sound

Of some rejoicing stream.

The merry homes of England !

Around their hearths by night,
What gladsome looks of household love

Meet in the ruddy light.
There woman's voice flows forth in song,

Or childhood's tale is told ;
Or lips move tunefully along,

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,
They are smiling o'er the silvery brook,

And round the hamlet-fanes.
Through glowing orchards forth they peep,

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
May hearts of native proof be reared

To guard each hallowed wall.
And green for ever be the groves,

And bright the flowery sod,
Where first the child's glad spirit loves

Its country and its God.

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, com-
posed 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 Mecklen-
burgh, 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,
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 ’midst 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.