Mrs. Hemans. 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 huried at the village of Wobbelen, 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 Todten nicht.

"Forget not the faithful dead.”

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 oak wav'd 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 peel 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 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 ʼmidst the vines ye played,

And sent glad singing through the free blue sky!
Ye were but two ; and, when that spirit pass’d,

Wo to the one, the last !

Wo, 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

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 when 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 dusť from dust,

That love where love is but a fount of tears !
Brother! sweet sister !

dwell! Lyre, sword, and flower, farewell !

peace around



Alfred Tennyson.
With blackest moss the flower-plots

Were thickly crusted, one and all;
The rusted nails fell from the knots

That held the peach to the garden wall.
The broken sheds look'd sad and strange,

Unlifted was the clinking latch,

Weeded and worn the ancient thatch,
Upon the lonely moated grange.

She only said, “ My life is dreary,

He cometh not,” she said :
She said, “I am aweary, aweary,

I would that I were dead!”
Her tears fell with the dews at even,

Her tears fell ere the dews were dried,
She could not look on the sweet heaven,

Either at morn or eventide.
After the flitting of the bats,

When thickest dark did trance the sky,

She drew her casement curtain by,
And glanced athwart the glooming flats.

She only said, "The night is dreary,

He cometh not,” she said :
She said, “I am aweary, aweary,

I would that I were dead!"

Upon the middle of the night,

Waking, she heard the night fowl crow; The cock sang out an hour ere light;

From the dark fen the oxen's low Came to her, without hope of change ;

In sleep she seemed to walk forlorn,

Till cold winds woke the grey-eyed morn, About the lonely moated grange.

She only said, “ The day is dreary,

He cometh not,” she said :
She said, “I am aweary, aweary,

I would that I were dead!”

About a stone-cast from the wall,

A sluice with blacken'd waters slept, And o'er it many, round and small,

The cluster'd marish mosses crept. Hard by a poplar shook alway,

All silver green with gnarlèd bark;

For leagues no other tree did dark The level waste, the rounding grey.

She only said, “ My life is dreary,

He cometh not,” she said :
She said, “ I am aweary, aweary,

I would that I were dead !”

And ever when the moon was low,
And the shrill winds were up an'

away, In the white curtain too and fro,

She saw the gusty shadow sway, But when the moon was very low,

And wild winds bound within their cell,

The shadow of the poplar fell Upon her bed, across her brow.

She only said, “The night is dreary,

He cometh not,” she said :
She said, “I am aweary, aweary,

I would that I were dead !”

All day within the dreamy house,

The doors upon their hinges creak’d, The blue fly sang i’ the pane; the mouse

Behind the mouldering wainscot shriek’d, Or from the crevice peer'd about.

Old faces glimmering through the doors,

Old footsteps trode the upper floors, Old voices call'd her from without.

She only said, “ My life is dreary,

He cometh not,” she said :
She said, “I am aweary, aweary,

I would that I were dead !”

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Cass. Honour is the subject of my story :
I cannot tell what you and other men
Think of this life, but for my single self,
I'd rather sleep i' th' dust, than live to be
In awe of such a thing as I myself-

I was born free as Cæsar.–So were you.
We both have fed as well, and we can both
Endure the winter's cold as well as he :
For once upon a raw and gusty day,
The troubled Tiber chafing with his shores,
Cæsar says to me, “Dar'st thou, Cassius, now
Leap with me into this angry flood,
And swim to yonder point?" Upon the word,
Accoutred as I was, I plunged in,
And bade him follow; so indeed he did.
The torrent roar'd, and we did buffet it
With lusty sinews, throwing it aside,
And stemming it with hearts of controversy.
But 'ere we could arrive the point propos’d,
Cæsar cry'd, '. Help me, Cassius, or I sink.”
Then, as Æneas, our great ancestor,
Did, from the flames of Troy, upon his shoulders,
The old Anchises bear, so, from the waves of Tiber,
Did I the tired Cæsar : and this man
Is now become a god, and Cassius is
A wretched creature, and must bend his body
If Cæsar carelessly but nod to him.
He had an ague when he was in Spain ;
And when the fit was on him, I did mark
How he did shake : 'tis truth, this god did shake;
His coward lips did from their colour fly,
And that same eye, whose bend doth awe the world,



Did lose its lustre; I did hear him groan:
Ay, and that tongue of his, that bade the Romans
Mark him, and write his speeches in their books,
Alas, it cry'd, “ Give me some drink, Titinius"-
As a sick girl. Ye gods, it doth amaze me,
A man of such a feeble temper should
So get the start of the majestic world.
And bear the palm alone.

Bru. Another general shout!
I do believe that their applauses are
For some new honours that are heap'd on Cæsar.

Cass. Why, man, he doth bestride the narrow world
Like a colossus, and we, sorry dwarfs,
Walk under his huge legs, and peep about
To find ourselves dishonourable graves.
Men sometimes have been masters of their fates;
The fault, dear Brutus, is not in our stars,
But in ourselves, that we are underlings.
Brutus and Cæsar! what should be in that Cæsar?
Why should that name be sounded more than yours?
Write them together; yours is as fair a name :
Sound them ; it doth become the mouth as well:
Weigh them; it is as heavy: conjure with them;
Brutus will start a ghost as soon as Cæsar.
Now, in the names of all the gods at once,
Upon what meat doth this, our Cæsar, feed,
That he is grown so great? Age, thou art sham'd ;
Rome, thou hast lost the breed of noble bloods:
When went there by an age, since the sun shone,
But it was fam'd with more than one man?
When could they say,

'till now, who talk'd of Rome, That her wide walls encompass'd but one man ? Oh! you and I have heard our fathers say, There was a Brutus once, that would have brook'd A whip-gall’d slave to lord it over Rome A soon as this dread Cæsar.

Bru. That you do love me, I am nothing jealous; What you would work me to, I have some aim; How I have thought of this, and of these times, I shall recount hereafter. For this present, I would not (so with love I might intreat you) Be any further mov'd. What


have said,
I will consider; what you have to say,
I will with patience hear, and find a time
Both meet to hear and answer such high things.
Till then, my noble friend; chew upon this;
Brutus had rather be a Lybian;
Than to repute himself a son of Rome,
Under such hard conditions as this time
Is like to lay upon us.

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