Hymned thanks, and beadsmen praying, O who can tell each blessed sight and sound, That says, He with us bides, our long, long lost is found. MRS HEMANS. THE HOMES OF ENGLAND. THE stately homes of England, The merry homes of England! What gladsome looks of household love Meet in the ruddy light. There woman's voice flows forth in song, Or lips move tunefully along The blessed homes of England! That breathes from Sabbath-hours! All other sounds in that still time Of breeze and leaf are born. The cottage homes of England! The free fair homes of England! THE GRAVE OF KÖRNER. 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 beneath this tree 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 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.-See Downes's Letters from Mecklenburgh, and Korner's Prosaische Aufsatze, &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, The Oak waved proudly o'er thy burial-rite, 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 peal gave token, That Lyre and Sword were broken! Thou hast a hero's tomb !-A lowlier bed Fame was thy gift from others-but for her Thou hast thine Oak-thy trophy-what hath she? It was thy spirit, Brother! which had made Wo, yet not long!-She lingered but to trace 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! THE VOICE OF SPRING. ICOME, I come! ye have call'd me long, I have breathed on the South, and the chestnutflowers, By thousands, have burst from the forest-bowers, |