Of nature then swelled high; and o'er her child "Alas! my boy! thy gentle grasp is on me, And silver cords again to earth have won me, "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, 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, "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, "And thou, will slumber's dewy cloud fall round thee, Thine arms, when darkness as a veil hath wound thee, 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, "I give thee to thy God!-the God that gave thee, And pure as dew of Hermon, He shall have thee, "Therefore, farewell!-I go! my soul may fail me, But thou, my First-born! droop not, nor bewail me, The Amulet. SONNET. WRITTEN UNDER A PICTURE. LONE cot! most placidly in thy green nest I've seen thee, in the mantling evening drest, In which 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, The dream was idle as the ocean foam Yet still it was my dream, thou lonely cot! J. H. R. EVENING. BY MISS M. J. JEWSBURY. Ask ye the hour I love the best? - A king-but still a king at rest, Then lift thine eyes-and if there be And flowers seem listening on the stem, 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 Till all around her seem to be THE FAMILY PICTURE. BY SIR AUBREY DE VERE HUNT, BART. WITH work in hand, perchance some fairy cap, THE GRAVE OF KÖRNER. 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! Rest, bard! rest soldier!- By the father's hand The oak waved proudly o'er thy burial-rite, Thou hast a hero's tomb!- A lowlier bed |