Wöbbelin.

KÖRNER AND HIS SISTER.

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 composition 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.

REEN wave the oak forever o'er thy rest,

GREEN

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
Here shall the child of after years be led,
With his wreath-offering silently to stand

In the hushed 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 crowned bier to slumber warriors bore thee, And with true hearts thy brethren of the fight

Wept as they veiled 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 bowed 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 blessed 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 played,
And sent glad singing through the free blue sky.
Ye were but two, and when that spirit passed,
Woe to the one, the last!

Woe, yet not long! She lingered 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 answered 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 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!

Felicia Hemans.

IN

Worms.

THE NIBELUNGEN.

ancient song and story marvels high are told

Of knights of high emprise and adventures manifold; Of joy and merry feasting, of lamenting, woe, and fear, Of champions' bloody battles, many marvels shall ye hear.

A noble maid, and fair, grew up in Burgundy;
In all the land about fairer none might be:

She became a queen full high; Chrimhild was she hight;

But for her matchless beauty fell many a blade of might.

For love and for delight was framed that lady gay ; Many a champion bold sighed for the gentle may:

Full beauteous was her form, beauteous without com

pare;

The virgin's virtues might adorn many a lady fair.

Three kings of might and power had the maiden in their care,

King Günther and King Ghernot (champions bold they were),

And Ghisler the young, a chosen, peerless blade:
The lady was their sister, and much they loved the maid.

These lords were mild and gentle, born of the noblest blood;

Unmatched for power and strength were the heroes good:

Their realm was Burgundy, a realm of mickle might; Since then, in the land of Etzel, dauntless did they fight.

At Worms, upon the Rhine, dwelt they with their meiny bold;

Many champions served them, of countries manifold, With praise and honor nobly, even to their latest day, When, by the hate of two noble dames, dead on the ground they lay.

Bold were the kings, and noble, as I before have said ; Of virtues high and matchless, and served by many a

blade;

By the best of all the champions whose deeds were

ever sung:

Of trust and truth withouten fail; hardy, bold, and

strong.

POEMS OF PLACES.

There was Hagen of Tronek, and Dankwart, Hagen's

brother

(For swiftness was he famed), with heroes many other; Ortwin of Metz, with Ecke wart and Ghere, two margraves they;

And Folker of Alsace; no braver was in his day.

Rumolt was caterer to the king; a chosen knight was

he;

Sir Sindold and Sir Hunold bore them full manfully; In court and in the presence they served the princes three,

With many other knights; bolder none might be.

Dankwart was the marshal; his nephew Ortewin
Was sewer to the king; much honor did he win:
Sindold held the cup the royal prince before:
Chamberlain was Hunold: braver knights ne'er hauberk
bore.

Of the court's gay splendor, of all the champions free,
Of their high and knightly worth, and of the chivalry,
Which still they held in honor to their latest day,
No minstrel, in his song, could rightly sing or say.

One night the Queen Chrimhild dreamed her, as she lay, How she had trained and nourished a falcon wild and

gay,

When suddenly two eagles fierce the gentle hawk have

slain:

Never, in this world, felt she such bitter pain.