No! by our names and by our blood,
We leave it pure and free
Though hush'd awhile, that sounding flood
Shall roll in joy through ages yet to be.
We leave it, 'midst our country's woe,
The birthright of her breast-
We leave it, as we leave the snow,
Bright and eternal, on Eryri's * crest.
We leave it, with our fame to dwell,
Upon our children's breath-
Our voice in theirs through time shall swell-
The bard hath gifts of prophecy from death.
He dies-but yet the mountains stands,
Yet sweeps the torrent's tide,
And this is yet Aneurin's + land-
Winds! bear the spoiler one more tone of pride.
A VOYAGER'S DREAM OF LAND.
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."
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 hom
Afar from the dark sea's tossing foam;
Oh! the fall of that fountain is 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,
*Eryri, the Welsh name for Snowdon.
† Aneurin, a celebrated ancient British bard.
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 breath of the fainting myrtle-flowers,
Borne from the mountains in dewy hours,
And the fire-fly's glance through the darkening 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 woods 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 claim 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 wear,
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.
THE GRAVE OF KÖRNER.
CHARLES THEODORE KÖRNER, the celebrated young German 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 Wöbbelin, in Mecklenburg, 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 is of cast-iron, and the upper part is wrought into a lyre and a sword, a favourite emblem of Körner'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 Tödten nicht."
(Forget not the faithful Dead.)
-See Downes's Letters from Mecklenburg, and Körner's Prosaische Aufsätze, 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 pour'd,
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 hush'd presence of the glorious dead..
Soldier and Bard!' for thou thy path hast trod
With Freedom and with God.*
* The poems of Körner, which were chiefly devoted to the cause of his country, are strikingly distinguished by religious feelings, and a confidence in the Supreme Justice for the final deliverance of Germany.
The oak waved proudly o'er thy burial rite,
On thy crown'd bier to slumber warriors bore thee, And with true hearts thy brethren of the fight
Wept as they vail'd 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 bow'd her fair young head,
When thou wert gone, in silent sorrow dying.
Brother, true friend! the tender and the brave-
She pin'd to share thy grave.
Fame was thy gift from others—but for her,
To whom the wide world held that only spot-
She lov'd 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 play'd,
And sent glad singing through the free blue sky.
Ye were but two—and when that spirit pass'd,
Woe to the one, the last!
Woe, yet not long-she linger'd 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 answer'd 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 perish'd-be the Flower deplor'd,
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 GRAVES OF A HOUSEHOLD.
THEY grew in beauty, side by side,
They fill'd one home with glee-
Their graves are sever'd far and wide,
By mount, and stream, and sea.
The same fond mother bent at night
O'er each fair sleeping brow;
She had each folded flower in sight—
Where are those dreamers now?
One, 'midst the forests of the West,
By a dark stream is laid-
The Indian knows his place of rest,
Far in the cedar shade.
The sea, the blue lone sea, hath one;
He lies where pearls lie deep-
He was the loved of all, yet none
O'er his low bed may weep.
One sleeps where southern vines are drest,
Above the noble slain;
He wrapt his colours round his breast,
On a blood-red field of Spain.
And one-o'er her the myrtle showers
Its leaves, by soft winds fann'd;
She faded 'midst Italian flowers,
The last of that bright band.
And parted thus they rest, who play'd
Beneath the same green tree;
Whose voices mingled as they pray'd
Around one parent knee !
They that with smiles lit up the hall,
And cheer'd with song the hearth—
Alas! for love, if thou wert all,
And nought beyond, O earth!
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