Thy pensive eye but ranges

O'er ruin'd fane and hall,
Oh! the deep soul has changes

More sorrowful than all.

Talk not, while these before thee throng,
Of silence in the place of song.

See scorn-where love has perish'd;
Distrust-where friendship grew!
Pride-where once nature cherish'd
All tender thoughts and true!
And shadows of oblivion thrown
O'er every trace of idols gone.

Weep not for tombs far scatter'd,
For temples prostrate laid-
In thine own heart lie shatter'd
The altars it had made.

Go, sound its depths in doubt and fear!
Heap up no more its treasures here.

HYMN OF THE VAUDOIS MOUNTAINEERS IN TIMES OF PERSECUTION.

"Thanks be to God for the mountains!"
Howitt's Book of the Seasons.

FOR the strength of the hills we bless thee,
Our God, our fathers' God!
Thou hast made thy children mighty,
By the touch of the mountain sod.
Thou hast fix'd our ark of refuge,
Where the spoiler's foot ne'er trod;
For the strength of the hills we bless thee,
Our God, our father's God!

Hath nature lost the hidden power

Its precious foliage shed?
Is there no distant eastern bower,
With such sweet leaves o'erspread?

Nay, wherefore ask?-since gifts are ours,
Which yet may well imbue
Earth's many-troubled founts with showers
Of Heaven's own balmy dew.

Oh! mingled with the cup of grief,
Let faith's deep spirit be;
And every prayer shall win a leaf
From that blest healing tree!

EVENING SONG OF THE TYROLESE PEASANTS.*

COME to the sunset tree!

The day is past and gone;
The woodman's axe lies free,
And the reaper's work is done.

The twilight star to heaven,
And the summer dew to flowers,
And rest to us is given

By the cool soft evening hours. Sweet is the hour of rest!

Pleasant the wind's low sigh, And the gleaming of the west,

And the turf whereon we lie.

When the burden and the heat
Of labour's task are o'er,
And kindly voices greet
The tired one at his door.
Come to the sunset tree!

The day is past and gone;
The woodman's axe lies free,

And the reaper's work is done.

Yes; tuneful is the sound

That dwells in whispering boughs; Welcome the freshness round,

And the gale that fans our brows.

But rest more sweet and still

Than ever night-fall gave, Our longing hearts shall fill

In the world beyond the grave.

There shall no tempest blow,

No scorching noon-tide heat;
There shall be no more snow,
No weary wandering feet.
And we lift our trusting eyes,
From the hills our fathers trod,
To the quiet of the skies,

To the Sabbath of our God.

*"The loved hour of repose is striking. Let us come to the sunset tree."-See Captain Sherer's interesting "Notes and Reflections during a ramble in Germany."

Thou hast thy home!- there is no power in

change

To reach that temple of the past-no sway In all time brings, of sudden, dark, or strange, To sweep the still transparent peace away From its hush'd air.

And, oh! that glorious image of the dead!
Sole thing whereon a deathless love may rest,
And in deep faith and dreamy worship shed
Its high gifts fearlessly!-I call thee blest,
If only there!

Blest, for the beautiful within thee dwelling,
Never to fade!-a refuge from distrust,
A spring of purer life, still freshly welling,
To clothe the barrenness of earthly dust
With flowers divine.

And thou hast been beloved!-it is no dream,
No false mirage for thee, the fervent love,
The rainbow still unreach'd, the ideal gleam,
That ever seems before, beyond, above,
Far off to shine.

But thou, from all the daughters of the earth Singled and mark'd, hast known its home and place,

And the high memory of its holy worth
To this own life a glory and a grace
For thee hath given.

And art thou not still fondly, truly loved?
-Thou art!-the love his spirit bore away
Was not for earth!-a treasure but removed,
A bright bird parted for a clearer day-
Thine still in Heaven!

Byron.

I CALL thee blest!--though now the voice be fled, Which to thy soul brought day-spring with its tone,

And o'er the gentle eyes, though dust be spread, Eyes that ne'er look'd on thine but light was thrown

Far through thy breast:

And though the music of thy life be broken,
Or changed in every chord since he is gone,
Feeling all this, even yet, by many a token,
O thou, the deeply, but the brightly lone,
I call thee blest.

For in thy heart there is a holy spot,

As 'mid the waste an isle of fount and palm, For ever gone!-the world's breath enters not, The passion-tempests may not break its calm: 'Tis thine, all thine.

Thither, in trust unbaffled, may'st thou turn, From weary words, cold greetings, heartless

eyes,

Quenching thy soul's thirst at the hidden urn, That, fill'd with waters of sweet memory, lies In its own shrine.

THE IVY OF KENILWORTH.

HEARD'ST thou what the Ivy sigh'd,
Waving where all else hath died,
In the place of regal mirth,
Now the silent Kenilworth?

With its many glistening leaves,
There a solemn robe it weaves;
And a voice is in each fold,
Like an oracle's of old.

Heard'st thou, while with dews of night
Shone its berries darkly bright?
Yes! the whisperer seem'd to say,
"All things-all things pass away!
"Where I am, the harp hath rung
Banners and proud shields among,
And the blood-red wine flow'd free,
And the fire shot sparks of glee.

"Where I am, now last and lone,
Queenly steps have come and gone;
Gorgeous masques have glided by,
Unto rolling harmony.

The spirit meek, and yet by pain unshaken,
The faith, the love, the lofty constancy,
Guide us where these are with our sister flown-
They were of Thee, and thou hast claim'd thine
own!

KORNER AND HIS SISTER.

Charles Theodore Korner, 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 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 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 burialplace. Over the gate of the cemetery is engraved one of his own lines:

"Vergiss die treuen Todten nicht."

Forget not the faithful dead. See Richardson's Translation of Korner's Life and Works, and Downe's Letters from Mecklenburgh.

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 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 pined to share thy grave.

Fame was thy gift from others;-but for her,
To whom the wide world 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 earth 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 her's 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 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 dwellLyre, sword, and flower, farewell!*

THE SPELLS OF HOME.

"There blend the ties that strengthen
Our hearts in hours of grief,
The silver links that lengthen
Joy's visits when most brief."

Bernard Barton.

By the soft green light in the woody glade,
On the banks of moss where thy childhood play'd;
By the household tree through which thine eye
First look'd in love to the summer sky;
By the dewy gleam, by the very breath

Of the primrose tufts in the grass beneath,
Upon thy heart there is laid a spell,
Holy and precious-oh! guard it well!

By the sleepy ripple of the stream,
Which hath lull'd thee into many a dream;

*The following lines recently addressed to the author of the above, by the venerable father of Korner, who, with the mother, still survives the "Lyre, Sword, and Flower' here commemorated, may not be uninteresting to the German reader.

Wohllaut tont aus der Ferne von freundlichen Luften getra

gen,

Schmeichelt mit lindernder Kraft sich in der Trauernden Ohr, Starkt den erhebenden Glauben an solcher seelen Verwandschaft,

Die zum Tempel die brust nur für das Wurdige weihn. Aus dem Lande zue dem sich stets der gefeyerte Jungling Hingezogen gefühlt, wird ihm ein glanzender Lohn.

By the shiver of the ivy-leaves
To the wind of morn at thy casement eaves,
By the bees' deep murmur in the limes,
By the music of the Sabbath chimes,
By every sound of thy native shade,
Stronger and dearer the spell is made.

By the gathering round the winter hearth,
When twilight call'd unto household mirth;
By the fairy tale or the legend old
In that ring of happy faces told;
By the quiet hour when hearts unite
In the parting prayer and the kind "Good
night;"

By the smiling eye and the loving tone,
Over thy life has the spell been thrown.
And bless that gift-it hath gentle might,
A guardian power and a guiding light.
It hath led the freeman forth to stand
In the mountain-battles of his land;
It hath brought the wanderer o'er the seas,
To die on the hills of his own fresh breeze;
And back to the gates of his father's hall,
It hath led the weeping prodigal.

Yes! when thy heart in its pride would stray
From the pure first loves of its youth away;
When the sullying breath of the world would

Where shall now the weary Rest through summer eves? Or the bee find honey,

As on thy sweet leaves? Where shall now the ring-dove Build again her nest?

She so long the inmate

Of thy fragrant breast?

fremd ist!

Uber Lander und Meer reichen sich beyde die Hand.

Far more than the ring-dove, far more than the

bee!

Theodor Korner's Vater.