What then was left for her, the faithful-hearted? 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! "Korner joined Lutzow's volunteers. His fate is well known. Young and handsome, a poet and a hero, loving, and in the full assurance of being beloved, with all life's fairest visions and purest affections about his head and heart, he perished—the miniature of "Toni" being found within his bosom, next to the little pocket book in which he had written the Song of the Sword-the first shattered by the bullet, which had found his heart, the latter stained with his blood." Mrs. Jamieson. SPECIMEN OF A DUTCH POET. JOOST VAN DEN VONDEL. TRANSLATED BY JOHN BOWRING. INFANT fairest-beauty rarest- Wherefore learn not to be blest? Heaven's my home now, where I roam now-- Why distress thee? Still I'll bless thee-- Cheer life's dullness-pour heaven's fulness Leave behind thee thoughts that bind thee- Look before thee, round thee, o'er thee--- LINES ON THE LOSS OF A SHIP. FROM "THE BUCCANEERS, AND OTHER POEMS," BY JOHN MALCOLM, 1824. HER mighty sails the breezes swell, And fast she leaves the lessening land, And from the shore the last farewell Until its verge she wanders o'er; In her was many a mother's joy, The lonely heart's unceasing prayer; T When on her wide and trackless path Vain guesses all-her destiny Is dark-she ne'er was heard of more! The moon hath twelve times changed her form, From flowing orb to crescent wan; 'Mid skies of calm, and scowl of storm, Since from her port that ship hath gone; But ocean keeps its secrets well, And though we know that all is o'er, Oh! were her tale of sorrow known, 'Twere something to the broken heart; The pangs of doubt would then be gone, And Fancy's endless dreams depart : It may not be !-there is no ray By which her doom we may explore ; We only know she sail'd away, And ne'er was seen nor heard of more! THE LAKE. LETITIA ELIZABETH LANDON. THE last pale light was on the sky, Dark outlined in the sky's clear gray, Rose mountain-heights, till, to the eye, They gloom'd like storm-clouds piled on high. Upon the other eastern shore Grew, in light groups, the sycamore— Gay with the bright tints that recall How autumn and ambition fall; Of riches, pride, and pomp, and power. Nor hunter's cry rose with the dawn. |