The ocean-eagle soar'd

From his nest by the white wave's foam,
And the rocking pines of the forest roared-
This was their welcome home!

There were men with hoary hair
Amid that pilgrim-band;

Why had they come to wither there,
Away from their childhood's land?

There was woman's fearless eye,
Lit by her deep love's truth;

There was manhood's brow serenely high,
And the fiery heart of youth:

What sought they thus afar?
Bright jewels of the mine?

The wealth of seas, the spoils of war?-
They sought a faith's pure shrine!

Ay, call it holy ground,

The soil where first they trod!

They have left unstain'd what there they foundFreedom to worship God!

THE GRAVE OF KÖRNER.

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 [thee; Wept as they vail'd 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 lying;
The 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 best place by thee!

It was thy spirit, brother! which had made

The bright world glorious to her thoughtful eye,
Since first in childhood mid the vines ye play'd,
And sent glad singing through the free blue sky.
Ye were but two: and when that spirit pass'd,
Wo to the one, the last!

Wo, yet not long: she linger'd 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 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!

RHINE SONG.

Ir is the Rhine! our mountain vineyards laving,
I see the bright flood shine:

Sing on the march, with every banner waving:
Sing, brothers, 'tis the Rhine!

The Rhine! the Rhine, our own imperial river!
Be glory on thy track!

We left thy shores to die or to deliver,

We bear thee freedom back!

Hail! hail! my childhood knew the rush of water, E'en as my mother's song;

That sound went past me on the field of slaughter, And heart and arm grew strong!

Roll proudly on! brave blood is with thee sweeping, Pour'd out by sons of thine,

Where sword and spirit forth in joy were leaping, Like thee, victorious Rhine!

Home! home! thy glad wave hath a tone of greeting, Thy path is by my home:

Even now my children count the hours till meeting,
Oh ransom❜d ones, I come!

Go tell the seas that chains shall bind thee never,
Sound on by hearth and shrine !

Sing through the hills that thou art free for ever—
Lift up thy voice, oh Rhine!

THE HOUR OF DEATH.

LEAVES have their time to fall,

And flowers to wither at the north wind's breath, And stars to set; but all,

Thou hast all seasons for thine own, oh! Death.

Day is for mortal care,

Eve for glad meetings round the joyous hearth,

Night for the dreams of sleep, the voice of But all for thee, thou Mightiest of the earth. [prayer, The banquet hath its hour,

Its feverish hour of mirth, and song, and wine;

There comes a day for grief's o'erwhelm g

A time for softer tears, but all are thine.

Youth and the opening rose

May look like things too glorious for decay,

[power,

And smile at thee; but thou art not of those That wait the ripen'd bloom to seize their prev.

Leaves have their time to fall,

And flowers to wither at the north wind's breath,
And stars to set; but all,

Thou hast all seasons for thine own, oh! Death.

We know when moons shall wane,

When summer-birds from far shall cross the sea, When autumn's hue shall tinge the golden grain,

But who shall teach us when to look for thee?

Is it when Spring's first gale

Comes forth to whisper where the violets lie?
Is it when roses in our paths grow pale?
They have one season: all are ours to die!

Thou art where billows foam,

Thou art where music melts upon the air;

Thou art around us in our peaceful home, And the world calls us forth, and thou art there.

Thou art where friend meets friend, Beneath the shadow of the elm to rest;

Thou art where foe meets foe, and trumpets rend

The skies, and swords beat down the princely crest.

Leaves have their time to fall,

And flowers to wither at the north wind's breath, And stars to set; but all,

Thou hast all seasons for thine own, oh! Death.

LORD BYRON. 1788-1824.

THE DREAM.

OUR life is twofold: sleep hath its own world,
A boundary between the things misnamed
Death and existence: sleep hath its own world,
And a wide realm of wild reality,

And dreams in their development have breath,
And tears, and tortures, and the touch of joy;
They leave a weight upon our waking thoughts,
They take a weight from off our waking toils,
They do divide our being; they become
A portion of ourselves as of our time,
And look like heralds of eternity;

They pass like spirits of the past; they speak
Like sibyls of the future; they have power-
The tyranny of pleasure and of pain;

They make us what we were not-what they will,
And shake us with the vision that's gone by,
The dread of vanish'd shadows. Are they so?
Is not the past all shadow? What are they?
Creations of the mind? The mind can make
Substance, and people planets of its own
With beings brighter than have been, and give
A breath to forms which can outlive all flesh.