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Speak then, thou voice of God within,

Thou of the deep, low tone!
Answer me, through life's restless din,

Where is the spirit flown?
And the voice answer'd—“Be thou still !

Enough to know is given;
Clouds, winds, and stars their part fulfil,

Thine is to trust in Heaven."


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 compo sition of his popular piece, The Sword Song. He was buried at the village of Wöbbelin in Mecklenburg, 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 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 Richardson's Translation of Körner's Life and Works, and Downes' Letters from Mecklenburg.

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 vaild their drooping banners o'er


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 lyingThe 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 bless'd place by thee!

It was thy spirit, brother, which had made

The bright earth glorious to her youthful 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 breastOnce, 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 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 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 dwell:

Lyre, Sword, and Flower, farewell!

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


A song for the death-day of the brave

A song of pride!
The youth went down to a hero's grave,

With the Sword, his bride.

He went, with his noble heart unworn,

And pure, and high ;
An eagle stooping from clouds of morn,

Only to die.

He went with the lyre, whose lofty tone

Beneath his hand
Had thrillid to the name of his God alone,

And his father-land.

Wohllaut tönt aus der Ferne von freundlichen Lüften getragen
Schmeichelt mit lindernder Kraft sich in der Trauernden Ohr,
Stärkt den erhebenden Glauben an solcher seelen Verwandschaft,
Die zum Tempel die brust nur für das Würdige weihn.
Aus dem Lande zu dem sich stets der gefeyerte Jungling
Hingezogen gefühlt, wird ihm ein gläzender Lohn.
Heil dem Brittischen Volke, wenn ihm das Deutsche nicht fremd ist!
Uber Länder und Meer reichen sich beyde die Hand.

Theodor Körner's Vater. * On reading part of a letter from Körner's father, addressed to Mr. Richardson, the translator of his works, in which he speaks of “The Death-day of his son."

* See The Sword Song, composed on the morning of his death.

And with all his glorious feelings yet

In their first glow, Like a southern stream that no frost hath met

To chain its flow.

A song for the death-day of the brave

A song of pride!
For him that went to a hero's grave,

With the Sword, his bride.

He hath left a voice in his trumpet lays

To turn the flight,
And a guiding spirit for after days,

Like a watchfire's light.

And a grief in his father's soul to rest,

'Midst all high thought; And a memory unto his mother's breast

With healing fraught.

And a name and fame above the blight

Of earthly breath,
Beautiful beautiful and bright,

In life and death!

A song for the death-day of the brave

A song of pride!
For him that went to a hero's grave,

With the Sword, his bride!

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