BY 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 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 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 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;

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,
Woe for the one, the last!

Woe, 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!

Literary Souvenir.

BY MRS. HEMANS.

No more of talk, where God or angel guest
With man, as with his friend, familiar used
To sit indulgent, and with him partake
Rural repast.

ARE ye for ever to your skies departed?

MILTON.

Oh! will ye visit this dim world no more ? Ye whose bright wings a seldom splendour darted Through Eden's fresh and flowering shades of yore? Now are the fountains dried on that sweet spot, our faded earth beholds you not!

And ye

Yet, by your shining eyes not all forsaken,
Man wandered from his Paradise away;
Ye, from forgetfulness his heart to waken,

Came down, high guests ! in many a later day,
And with the Patriarchs under vine or oak,
Midst noontide calm or hush of evening spoke.

From you, the veil of midnight darkness rending,
Came the rich mysteries to the sleeper's eye,
That saw your hosts ascending and descending,

On those bright steps between the earth and sky: Trembling he woke, and bowed o'er glory's trace, And worshipped, awe-struck, in that fearful place.

By Chebar's Brook ye passed, such radiance wearing
As mortal vision might but ill endure;
Along the stream the living chariot bearing,

With its high crystal arch, intensely pure ! *
And the dread rushing of your wings that hour,

Was like the noise of waters in their power.

But in the Olive-mount, by night appearing,

Midst the dim leaves, your holiest work was done !—

* Ezekiel, chap. 1.

Whose was the voice that came, divinely cheering,
Fraught with the breath of God to aid his Son?-
Haply of those that on the moonlit plains
Wafted good tidings unto Syrian swains.

Yet one more task was yours!—your heavenly dwelling
Ye left, and by the' unsealed sepulchral stone
In glorious raiment sat; the weepers telling,

That He they sought had triumphed, and was gone!
Now have ye left us for the brighter shore,
Your presence lights the lonely groves no more!

But may ye not, unseen, around us hover,

With gentle promptings and sweet influence yet?
Though the fresh glory of those days be over,

When, midst the palm-trees, man your footsteps met?
Are ye not near when Faith and Hope rise high,
When love, by strength, o'ermasters agony?

Are ye not near, when sorrow unrepining,

Yields up life's treasures unto Him who gave? When martyrs, all things for His sake resigning, Lead on the march of death, serenely brave? Dreams!— but a deeper thought our souls may fill— One, one is near—a spirit holier still!

Amulet.

BY BERNARD BARTON.

THE tale I tell was told me long ago;

Yet mirthful ones, since heard, have passed away,
While this still wakens memory's fondest glow,
And feelings fresh as those of yesterday:

'T was told me by a man whose hairs were grey,
Whose brow bore token of the lapse of years,
Yet o'er his heart affection's gentle sway

Maintained that lingering spell which age endears, And while he told his tale his eyes were dim with tears.

But not with tears of sorrow ;-for the eye
Is often wet with joy and gratitude;

And well his faltering voice, and tear, and sigh,
Declared a heart by thankfulness subdued:
Brief feelings of regret might there intrude,

Like clouds which shade awhile the moon's fair light;
But meek submission soon her power renewed,

And patient smiles, by tears but made more bright, Confessed that God's decree was wise, and good and right.

It was a winter's evening;—clear, but still:
Bright was the fire, and bright the silvery beam
Of the fair moon shone on the window-sill
And parlour floor; the softly mingled gleam
Of fire and moonlight suited well a theme
Of pensive converse, unallied to gloom;
Ours varied like the subjects of a dream;
And turned, at last, upon the silent tomb,

Earth's goal for hoary age, and beauty's smiling bloom.

We talked of life's last hour,-the varied forms
And features it assumes ;-how some men die,
As sets the sun when dark clouds threaten storms
And starless night; others whose evening sky
Resembles those which to the outward eye