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Of nature then swelled high; and o'er her child
Bending, her soul brake forth, in mingled sounds
Of weeping and sad song. — “Alas!" she cried,

“Alas! my boy! thy gentle grasp is on me,
The bright tears quiver in thy pleading eyes,

And now fond thoughts arise,
And silver cords again to earth have won me,
And like a vine thou claspest my full heart -

How shall I hence depart?

“ How the lone paths retrace, were thou wert playing
So late along the mountains at my side?

And I, in joyous pride,
By every place of flowers my course delaying,
Wove, even as pearls, the lilies round thy hair,

Beholding thee so fair !

“ And, oh! the home whence thy bright smile hath parted ! Will it not seem as if the sunny day

Turned from its door away, While, through its chambers wandering, weary-hearted, I languish for thy voice, which past me still,

Went like a singing rill?

“ Under the palm-trees thou no more shall meet me,
When from the fount at evening I return,

With the full water-urn!
Nor will thy sleep's low, dove-like murmurs greet me,
As 'midst the silence of the stars I wake,

And watch for thy dear sake!

“And thou, will slumber's dewy cloud fall round thee,
Without thy mother's hand to smooth thy bed?

Wilt thou not vainly spread
Thine arms, when darkness as a veil hath wound thee,
To fold my neck; and lift up, in thy fear,

A cry which none shall hear?

“What have I said, my child?_will He not hear thee Who the young ravens heareth from their nest?

Will he not guard thy rest,
And, in the hush of holy midnight near thee,
Breathe o'er thy soul, and fill its dreams with joy?

Thou shalt sleep soft, my boy!

“I give thee to thy God !- the God that gave thee,
A well-spring of deep gladness to my heart !

And, precious as thou art,
And pure as dew of Hermon, He shall have thee,
My own, my beautiful, my undefiled!

And thou shalt be His child!

“ Therefore, farewell!- I go! my soul may fail me,
As the stag panteth for the water-brooks,

Yearning for thy sweet looks!
But thou, my First-born! droop not, nor bewail me,
Thou in the shadow of the Rock shalt dwell,

The Rock of Strength — farewell!''
The Amulet.



Lone cot! most placidly in thy green nest
Thou cowerest, like the white bird of the wood;
Birds and high trees are all thy neighbourhood,
And silence is the joy thou lovest best.
I've seen thee, in the mantling evening drest,
Wear thy wan beauty so—that oh! I would
Never abandon that delightful mood
In which I found thee in thy radiant nest.

Thou wert to me a dream of days to come;
The fairy spirit of a visioned spot,
Where hope and love might build themselves a home,
And bid long farewell to a worldly lot.
The dream was idle as the ocean foam-
Yet still it was my dream, thou lonely cot!

J. H. R.



Ask the hour I love the best? The hour of silence and of rest! Oh! meet me in some sylvan bower, When day throws off his robes of power, And, sinking in the regal west, A king — but still a king at rest, Reclines behind the “ dark hill's side," Or hides beneath the waters wide, From vain pursuit and mortal ken, The flashing of his diadem! Then lift thine eyes — and if there be The spell abroad so sweet to me, The heavens will be of silver hue, The air be soft and silent too; And flowers seem listening on the stem, To streams that whisper unto them! And every leaf will tremble there, If only breathed on by the air ! And stars will steal upon

the view, Like happy spirits, shining through Their heaven, and this world's veil of blue; Rejoicing to behold again The dwellings of the sons of men.

If there be sounds -- they will but be
Like crystal droppings from a tree,
Or far-off greenwood melody.
Then will the maiden moon be seen,
In chastened lustre o'er the green;
Casting a tender, trembling gaze,
On every object 'neath her rays !
A holy paleness on the tower;
A tint more lovely on the flower;
A dimpled light on waters flowing;
On vale and hill, a radiance glowing;

Till all around her seem to be
“Sleeping in bright tranquillity.”
If in thine eye the placid tear,
Unbidden, yet unchecked, appear,-
If thought, thy leading star, bring on
Thy friends far distant, one by one,
While memory sings, in syren strain,
Of dreams thou ne'er must dream again ;-
Behold the hour I love the best:-
The hour of silence and of rest.



With work in hand, perchance some fairy cap,
To deck the little stranger yet to come;
One rosy boy struggling to mount her lap-
The eldest studious, with a book or map-
Her timid girl beside, with a faint bloom,
Conning some tale -- while, with no gentle tap,
Yon chubby urchin beats his mimic drum,
Nor heeds the doubtful frown her eyes assume.
So sits the mother! with her fondest smile
Regarding her sweet little ones the while.
And he, the happy man! to whom belong
These treasures, feels their living charm beguile
All mortal cares, and eyes the prattling throng
With rapture-rising heart, and a thanksgiving tongue !



Charles Theodore Körner, the celebrated young German poet and soldier, was killed in a skirmish with a detachment of French troops, on the 26th August, 1813, a few hours after the composition of his popular piece, “ The Sword Song." He was buried at the village of Wöbbelin, 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 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' Letters from Mecklenburgh, and Körner's Prosaische Aufsätze, &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 bills 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 peals, 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 ;

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