The ocean-eagle soar'd From his nest by the white wave's foam, There were men with hoary hair Why had they come to wither there, There was woman's fearless eye, There was manhood's brow serenely high, What sought they thus afar? The wealth of seas, the spoils of war?- 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, Rest, bard! rest, soldier! by the father's hand In the hush'd presence of the glorious dead. 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; 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 The bright world glorious to her thoughtful eye, Wo, yet not long: she linger'd but to trace But smile upon her ere she went to rest. 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 RHINE SONG. Ir is the Rhine! our mountain vineyards laving, Sing on the march, with every banner waving: The Rhine! the Rhine, our own imperial river! 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, Go tell the seas that chains shall bind thee never, Sing through the hills that thou art free for ever— 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, 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? 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, And dreams in their development have breath, They pass like spirits of the past; they speak They make us what we were not-what they will, |