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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
That breathes from Sabbath-hours !
Floats through their woods at morn,
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 ;
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 of August, 1813, a 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.
- 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
Wo to the one, the last !
Wo, yet not long !—She lingered but to trace
It apswered 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.