admiration at the Austrian capital. He had scarcely attained his majority when he was appointed poet of the Court Theatre. Of his comedies, several still hold the stage. His serious dramas evince high dramatic power and an unerring stage instinct, but they reveal also a lack of knowledge of the world. His tragedies are entirely in the rhetorical iambic style of Schiller, but they are filled with Schiller's idealism and ardor for the noble and the good. The greatest of his tragedies is 'Zriny,' and this play is still in the repertoire of all the larger German theatres. This glowing presentation of the heroic Hungarian general produced a profound effect, and brought to the surface that fervor of patriotism which had already begun to do its emancipating work in the oppressed lands of Germany.

But the final consecration of Körner's genius came with the summons of the Prussian king to rally to the liberation of the fatherland. With the fresh laurels of literary fame within his grasp, with a life of love and happiness before him, Körner deliberately went to die in his country's service, refusing to remain idly at home singing of the heroic deeds of others. He joined the famous Lützow Free Corps in 1813. Universally beloved by his comrades, he was elected to a lieutenancy by their unanimous vote and became the adjutant of the major. This enabled him to play a prominent part in the bold enterprises of that dreaded company. It was during these thrilling days that the martial and patriotic songs which make up the collection of 'Leier und Schwert' (Lyre and Sword) were composed. These, with the airs to which Carl Maria von Weber set them, became a powerful force in maintaining the martial spirit of Germany. In these songs Körner's genius finds its highest expression; they are among the most inspired patriotic utterances that German literature has to show. A few hours before his death on August 26th, 1813, he composed the fiery 'Song of the Sword.' He was reading it aloud in the woods where the troop was stationed when the signal to advance was given. The attack was begun, and near the village of Lützow Körner fell mortally wounded. Only a few days later one of Körner's friends, a noble and accomplished youth, rushed to his death in the forefront of battle with the words, "Körner, I follow thee!" This was the spirit with which he inspired his comrades; and with this same spirit his songs inspired the entire fatherland. Under an oaktree in the village of Wöbbelin he lies buried, and an iron monument commemorates his twofold fame. Not his songs only, but the noble example of his life has made Körner a fine inspirational force. It was of him that Mrs. Hemans sang:

MY NATIVE LAND

HERE is the minstrel's native land?

WHE

Where sparks of noble soul flashed high,
Where garlands bloomed in Honor's eye,
Where manly bosoms glowed with joy,
Touched by Religion's altar brand,—
There was my native land!

Name me the minstrel's native land.-
Though now her sons lie slain in heaps,
Though, wounded and disgraced, she weeps,
Beneath her soil the freeman sleeps.
The land of oaks-the German land-
They called my native land!

Why weeps the minstrel's native land ?-
To see her people's princes cower
Before the wrathful tyrant's power;
She weeps, that in the stormy hour
No soul at her high call will stand.

That grieves my native land!

Whom calls the minstrel's native land?-
She calls the voiceless gods; her cries
Like thunder-storms assail the skies;
She bids her sons, her freemen, rise;
On righteous Heaven's avenging hand
She calls my native land!

What will the minstrel's native land?-
She'll crush the slaves of despot power,
Drive off the bloodhounds from her shore,
And suckle free-born sons once more,

Or lay them free beneath the sand:
That will my native land!

And hopes the minstrel's native land?.
She hopes she hopes! Her cause is just.
Her faithful sons will wake - they must.

In God Most High she puts her trust;

On his great altar leans her hand,

And hopes-my native land!

Translation of C. T. Brooks.

F

PRAYER DURING THE BATTLE

ATHER, I call on thee!

Clouds from the thunder-voiced cannon enveil me,
Lightnings are flashing, death's thick darts assail

me:

Ruler of battles, I call on thee!

Father, oh, lead thou me!

Father, oh, lead thou me!

Lead me to victory, or to death lead me;
With joy I accept what thou hast decreed me.
God, as thou wilt, so lead thou me!
God, I acknowledge thee!

God, I acknowledge thee!

Where, in still autumn, the sear leaf is falling,
Where peals the battle, its thunder appalling:
Fount of all grace, I acknowledge thee!
Father, oh, bless thou me!

Father, oh, bless thou me!

Into thy hand my soul I resign, Lord;

Deal as thou wilt with the life that is thine, Lord.

Living or dying, oh, bless thou me!

Father, I praise thy name!

Father, I praise thy name!

Not for earth's wealth or dominion contend we;
The holiest rights of the freeman defend we.
Victor or vanquished, praise I thee!
God, in thy name I trust!

God, in thy name I trust!

When in loud thunder my death-note is knelling,
When from my veins the red blood is welling,

God, in thy holy name I trust!

Father, I call on thee!

Translation of J. S. Blackie.

SUMMONS

Y PEOPLE, wake! The signal-fires are smoking;

Bright breaks the light of Freedom from the north; 'Tis time thy steel in foemen's hearts was reeking. My people, wake! The signal-fires are smoking; The fields are white: ye reapers, hasten forth! The last, the highest hope lies in the sword;

Home to thy bleeding breast their lances strain; Make way for Freedom! Let thy blood be poured, To cleanse thy German land from every stain.

Ours is no war of which crowned heads are dreaming;
'Tis a crusade, a holy war we wage!

Faith, virtue, conscience, truth, and honor mourn;
These has the tyrant from thy bosom torn;

Thy Freedom's victory saves them from his rage.

The moanings of thy aged cry, "Awake!"

Thy homes in ashes curse the invading brood, Thy daughters in disgrace for vengeance shriek,

The ghosts of slaughtered sons shriek wild for blood.

Break up the plowshare, let the chisel fall,

The lyre be hushed, the shuttle cease its play;
Forsake thy courts, leave giddy Pleasure's hall:
He in whose sight thy banners flutter, all,

Will see his people now in war's array.
For thou shalt build a mighty altar soon
In his eternal Freedom's morning sky;
With thy good sword shall every stone be hewn;
On heroes' graves the temple's base shall lie.

Ye maidens and ye wives, for whom the Lord
Of Hosts the dreadful sword hath never steeled,
When 'mid your spoilers' ranks we gladly leap,
And bare our bosoms to the strife, why weep

That you may not stand forth on glory's field?—
Before God's altar joyfully repair;

The pangs of anxious love your wounds must be; To you He gives, in every heartfelt prayer,

The spirit's pure and bloodless victory.

Then pray that God would wake the slumbering fire,
And rouse his old heroic race to life;

And oh, as stern avenging spirits, call
The buried German martyrs, one and all,
As holy angels of the holy strife!
Spirit of Ferdinand, lead thou the van!

Louisa, faithful to thy spouse, be nigh!
And all ye shades of German heroes, on,

With us, with us, where'er our banners fly!

The might of Heaven is with us; Hell must cower:
On, valiant people! on! 'Tis Freedom's cry!
Thy heart beats high, high up thy old oaks tower:
Heed not thy hills of slain in victory's hour;

Plant Freedom's banner there to float on high.
And now, my people, when thou standest free,
Robed in the brightness of thy old renown,
Let not the faithful dead forgotten be,
And place upon our urn the oaken crown!

Translation of C. T. Brooks.

WHAT

LÜTZOW'S WILD CHASE

HAT gleams from yon wood in the sunbeams' play?
Hark! hark! It sounds nearer and nearer;
It winds down the mountain in gloomy array,
And the blast of its trumpets is bringing dismay
To the soul of the manliest hearer.

Go, read it in each dark comrade's face-
"That is Lützow's wild and desperate chase."

What glances so swiftly through forest, o'er fell,
From mountain to mountain flying?

In ambush like midnight it lies in the dell;
The hurrah rings, and the rifle's knell

Proclaims the French beadles are dying.
Go, read it in each dark hunter's face-

"That is Lützow's wild and desperate chase."

Where the rich grapes glow and the Rhine waves roar,
The tyrant thought safely to hide him;

With the swiftness of lightning it flies to the shore.
Leaps in, and with sinewy arm swims o'er,
And springs to the bank beside him.
Go, read it in each dark swimmer's face-
"That is Lützow's wild and desperate chase."