[353] Suggested by a scene beautifully described in the Recollections of the Peninsula.

THE KAISER’S FEAST.

[Louis, Emperor of Germany, having put his brother, the Palsgrave Rodolphus, under the ban of the empire in the twelfth century, that unfortunate prince fled to England, where he died in neglect and poverty. “After his decease, his mother Matilda privately invited his children to return to Germany; and, by her mediation, during a season of festivity, when Louis kept wassail in the castle of Heidelberg, the family of his brother presented themselves before him in the garb of suppliants, imploring pity and forgiveness. To this appeal the victor softened.”—Miss Benger’s Memoirs of the Queen of Bohemia.]

The Kaiser feasted in his hall—
The red wine mantled high;
Banners were trembling on the wall
To the peals of minstrelsy:
And many a gleam and sparkle came
From the armour hung around,
As it caught the glance of the torch’s flame,
Or the hearth with pine-boughs crown’d.
Why fell there silence on the chord
Beneath the harper’s hand?
And suddenly from that rich board,
Why rose the wassail band?
The strings were hush’d—the knights made way
For the queenly mother’s tread,
As up the hall, in dark array,
Two fair-hair’d boys she led.
She led them e’en to the Kaiser’s place,
And still before him stood;
Till, with strange wonder, o’er his face
Flush’d the proud warrior-blood:
And “Speak, my mother! speak!” he cried,
“Wherefore this mourning vest?
And the clinging children by thy side,
In weeds of sadness drest?”
“Well may a mourning vest be mine,
And theirs, my son, my son!
Look on the features of thy line
In each fair little one!
Though grief awhile within their eyes
Hath tamed the dancing glee,
Yet there thine own quick spirit lies—
Thy brother’s children see!
“And where is he, thy brother—where?
He in thy home that grew,
And smiling, with his sunny hair,
Ever to greet thee flew?
How would his arms thy neck entwine,
His fond lips press thy brow!
My son! oh, call these orphans thine!—
Thou hast no brother now!
“What! from their gentle eyes doth naught
Speak of thy childhood’s hours,
And smite thee with a tender thought
Of thy dead father’s towers?
Kind was thy boyish heart and true,
When rear’d together there,
Through the old woods like fawns ye flew—
Where is thy brother—where?
“Well didst thou love him then, and he
Still at thy side was seen!
How is it that such things can be
As though they ne’er had been?
Evil was this world’s breath, which came
Between the good and brave!
Now must the tears of grief and shame
Be offer’d to the grave.
“And let them, let them there be pour’d!
Though all unfelt below—
Thine own wrung heart, to love restored,
Shall soften as they flow.
Oh! death is mighty to make peace;
Now bid his work be done!
So many an inward strife shall cease—
Take, take these babes, my son!”
His eye was dimm’d—the strong man shook
With feelings long suppress’d;
Up in his arms the boys he took,
And strain’d them to his breast.
And a shout from all in the royal hall
Burst forth to hail the sight;
And eyes were wet midst the brave that met
At the Kaiser’s feast that night.

TASSO AND HIS SISTER.

“Devant vous est Sorrente; la demeuroit la sœur de Tasse, quand il vint en pelerin demander a cette obscure amie un asyle contre l’injustice des princes.—Ses longues douleurs avaient presque egare sa raison; il ne lui restoit plus que son genie.”—Corinne.

She sat, where on each wind that sigh’d
The citron’s breath went by,
While the red gold of eventide
Burn’d in the Italian sky.
Her bower was one where daylight’s close
Full oft sweet laughter found,
As thence the voice of childhood rose
To the high vineyards round.
But still and thoughtful at her knee
Her children stood that hour,
Their bursts of song and dancing glee
Hush’d as by words of power.
With bright fix’d wondering eyes, that gazed
Up to their mother’s face,
With brows through parted ringlets raised,
They stood in silent grace.
While she—yet something o’er her look
Of mournfulness was spread—
Forth from a poet’s magic book
The glorious numbers read;
The proud undying lay, which pour’d
Its light on evil years;
His of the gifted pen and sword,[354]
The triumph, and the tears.
She read of fair Erminia’s flight,
Which Venice once might hear
Sung on her glittering seas at night
By many a gondolier:
Of him she read, who broke the charm
That wrapt the myrtle grove;
Of Godfrey’s deeds, of Tancred’s arm,
That slew his Paynim love.
Young cheeks around that bright page glow’d,
Young holy hearts were stirr’d;
And the meek tears of woman flow’d
Fast o’er each burning word.
And sounds of breeze, and fount, and leaf,
Came sweet, each pause between,
When a strange voice of sudden grief
Burst on the gentle scene.
The mother turn’d—a way-worn man,
In pilgrim garb, stood nigh,
Of stately mien, yet wild and wan,
Of proud yet mournful eye.
But drops which would not stay for pride
From that dark eye gush’d free,
As pressing his pale brow, he cried,
“Forgotten! e’en by thee!
“Am I so changed?—and yet we two
Oft hand in hand have play’d;
This brow hath been all bathed in dew
From wreaths which thou hast made;
We have knelt down and said one prayer,
And sung one vesper strain;
My soul is dim with clouds of care—
Tell me those words again!
“Life hath been heavy on my head—
I come a stricken deer,
Bearing the heart, midst crowds that bled,
To bleed in stillness here.”
She gazed, till thoughts that long had slept
Shook all her thrilling frame—
She fell upon his neck and wept,
Murmuring her brother’s name.
Her brother’s name!—and who was he,
The weary one, th’ unknown,
That came, the bitter world to flee,
A stranger to his own?
He was the bard of gifts divine
To sway the souls of men;
He of the song for Salem’s shrine,
He of the sword and pen!

[354] It is scarcely necessary to recall the well-known Italian saying, that Tasso, with his sword and pen, was superior to all men.

ULLA; OR, THE ADJURATION.

“Yet speak to me! I have outwatch’d the stars,
And gazed o’er heaven in vain, in search of thee.
Speak to me! I have wander’d o’er the earth,
And never found thy likeness. Speak to me!
This once—once more!” Manfred.
“Thou’rt gone!—thou’rt slumbering low,
With the sounding seas above thee:
It is but a restless woe,
But a haunting dream to love thee!
Thrice the glad swan has sung
To greet the spring-time hours,
Since thine oar at parting flung
The white spray up in showers.
There’s a shadow of the grave on thy hearth and round thy home;
Come to me from the ocean’s dead!—thou’rt surely of them—come!”
’Twas Ulla’s voice! Alone she stood
In the Iceland summer night,
Far gazing o’er a glassy flood
From a dark rock’s beetling height.
“I know thou hast thy bed
Where the sea-weed’s coil hath bound thee;
The storm sweeps o’er thy head,
But the depths are hush’d around thee.
What wind shall point the way
To the chambers where thou’rt lying?
Come to me thence, and say
If thou thought’st on me in dying?
I will not shrink to see thee with a bloodless lip and cheek.
Come to me from the ocean’s dead!—thou’rt surely of them—speak!”
She listen’d—’twas the wind’s low moan,
’Twas the ripple of the wave,
’Twas the wakening osprey’s cry alone
As it startled from its cave.
“I know each fearful spell
Of the ancient Runic lay,
Whose mutter’d words compel
The tempest to obey.
But I adjure not thee
By magic sign or song;
My voice shall stir the sea
By love—the deep, the strong!
By the might of woman’s tears, by the passion of her sighs,
Come to me from the ocean’s dead!—by the vows we pledged, arise!”
Again she gazed with an eager glance,
Wandering and wildly bright;—
She saw but the sparkling waters dance
To the arrowy northern-light.
“By the slow and struggling death
Of hope that loathed to part,
By the fierce and withering breath
Of despair on youth’s high heart—
By the weight of gloom which clings
To the mantle of the night,
By the heavy dawn which brings
Naught lovely to the sight—
By all that from my weary soul thou hast wrung of grief and fear,
Come to me from the ocean’s dead! Awake, arise, appear!”
Was it her yearning spirit’s dream?
Or did a pale form rise,
And o’er the hush’d wave glide and gleam,
With bright, still, mournful eyes?
“Have the depths heard? They have!
My voice prevails: thou’rt there,
Dim from thy watery grave—
O thou that wert so fair!
Yet take me to thy rest!
There dwells no fear with love;
Let me slumber on thy breast,
While the billow rolls above!
Where the long-lost things lie hid, where the bright ones have their home,
We will sleep among the ocean’s dead. Stay for me, stay!—I come!”
There was a sullen plunge below,
A flashing on the main;
And the wave shut o’er that wild heart’s woe—
Shut, and grew still again.

TO WORDSWORTH.

Thine is a strain to read among the hills,
The old and full of voices,—by the source
Of some free stream, whose gladdening presence fills
The solitude with sound; for in its course
Even such is thy deep song, that seems a part
Of those high scenes, a fountain from their heart.
Or its calm spirit fitly may be taken
To the still breast in sunny garden bowers,
Where vernal winds each tree’s low tones awaken,
And bud and bell with changes mark the hours.
There let thy thoughts be with me, while the day
Sinks with a golden and serene decay.
Or by some hearth where happy faces meet,
When night hath hush’d the woods with all their birds,
There, from some gentle voice, that lay were sweet
As antique music, link’d with household words;
While in pleased murmurs woman’s lip might move,
And the raised eye of childhood shine in love.
Or where the shadows of dark solemn yews
Brood silently o’er some lone burial-ground,
Thy verse hath power that brightly might diffuse
A breath, a kindling, as of spring, around;
From its own glow of hope and courage high,
And steadfast faith’s victorious constancy.
True bard and holy!—thou art e’en as one
Who, by some secret gift of soul or eye,
In every spot beneath the smiling sun,
Sees where the springs of living waters lie:
Unseen awhile they sleep—till, touch’d by thee,
Bright healthful waves flow forth, to each glad wanderer free.

[These verses, addressed “To the Author of the Excursion and the Lyrical Ballads,” first appeared in the Literary Magnet for April 1826—a clever and tasteful periodical at that time conducted by Mr Alaric A. Watts—who appended to it the following complimentary editorial note:—

“We have much pleasure in presenting to our readers this exquisite address to the poet Wordsworth, with which we have been kindly favoured by its distinguished author. Those who are acquainted with Mr W.’s writings, will readily feel and appreciate the truth and beauty of the tribute.”

The same little poem was afterwards inclosed by Mrs Hemans in one of her letters to her accomplished and deeply attached friend, Miss Jewsbury—at whose recommendation the writings of the great poet of the Lakes had become an earnest study with our author, and with what advantage, her compositions subsequent to this time sufficiently testify. In the letter referred to, Mrs Hemans seems proud to avow these obligations.

“The inclosed lines,” she says—“an effusion of deep and sincere admiration—will give you some idea of the enjoyment, and I hope I may say advantage, which you have been the means of imparting, by so kindly intrusting me with your precious copy of Wordsworth’s Miscellaneous Poems. It has opened to me such a treasure of thought and feeling, that I shall always associate your name with some of my pleasantest recollections, as having introduced me to the knowledge of what I can only regret should have been so long a ‘Yarrow unvisited.’ I would not write to you sooner, because I wished to tell you that I had really studied these poems, and they have been the daily food of my mind ever since I borrowed them. There is hardly any scene of a happy, though serious, domestic life, or any mood of a reflective mind, with the spirit of which some one or other of them does not beautifully harmonise. This author is the true poet of home, and of all the lofty feelings which have their root in the soil of home affections. His fine sonnets to Liberty, and indeed all his pieces which have any reference to political interest, remind me of the spirit in which Schiller has conceived the character of William Tell—a calm, single-hearted herdsman of the hills, breaking forth into fiery and indignant eloquence when the sanctity of his hearth is invaded. Then what power Wordsworth condenses into single lines, like Lord Byron’s ‘curdling a long life into one hour!’

‘The still, sad music of humanity’—

‘The river glideth at his own sweet will’—

‘Over his own sweet voice the stock-dove broods’—

and a thousand others, which we must some time (and I hope not a very distant one) talk over together. Many of these lines quite haunt me: and I have a strange feeling, as if I must have known them in my childhood; they come over me so like old melodies. I can hardly speak of favourites among so many things that delight me; but I think ‘The Narrow Glen,’ the ‘Lines on Corra Linn,’ the ‘Song for the Feast of Brougham Castle,’ ‘Yarrow Visited,’ and ‘The Cuckoo,’ are among those which take hold of imagination the soonest, and recur most frequently to memory.

“I know not how I can have so long omitted to mention the Ecclesiastical Sketches, which I have read, and do constantly read, with deep interest. Their beauty grows upon you, and develops as you study it, like that of the old pictures by the Italian masters.”]

A MONARCH’S DEATH-BED.

[The Emperor Albert of Hapsburg, who was assassinated by his nephew, afterwards called John the Parricide, was left to die by the wayside, and only supported in his last moments by a female peasant, who happened to be passing.]

A monarch on his deathbed lay—
Did censers waft perfume,
And soft lamps pour their silvery ray,
Through his proud chamber’s gloom?
He lay upon a greensward bed,
Beneath a darkening sky—
A lone tree waving o’er his head,
A swift stream rolling by.
Had he then fallen as warriors fall,
Where spear strikes fire with spear?
Was there a banner for his pall,
A buckler for his bier?
Not so—nor cloven shields nor helms
Had strewn the bloody sod,
Where he, the helpless lord of realms,
Yielded his soul to God.
Were there not friends with words of cheer,
And princely vassals nigh?
And priests, the crucifix to rear
Before the glazing eye?
A peasant girl that royal head
Upon her bosom laid,
And, shrinking not for woman’s dread,
The face of death survey’d.
Alone she sat: from hill and wood
Red sank the mournful sun;
Fast gush’d the fount of noble blood—
Treason its worst had done.
With her long hair she vainly press’d
The wounds, to stanch their tide—
Unknown, on that meek humble breast,
Imperial Albert died!

TO THE MEMORY OF HEBER.

“Umile in tanta gloria.”—Petrarch.

If it be sad to speak of treasures gone,
Of sainted genius call’d too soon away,
Of light from this world taken, while it shone
Yet kindling onward to the perfect day—
How shall our grief, if mournful these things be,
Flow forth, O thou of many gifts! for thee?
Hath not thy voice been here amongst us heard
And that deep soul of gentleness and power,
Have we not felt its breath in every word
Wont from thy lip as Hermon’s dew to shower?
Yes! in our hearts thy fervent thoughts have burn’d—
Of heaven they were, and thither have return’d.
How shall we mourn thee? With a lofty trust,
Our life’s immortal birthright from above!
With a glad faith, whose eye, to track the just,
Through shades and mysteries lifts a glance of love,
And yet can weep!—for nature thus deplores
The friend that leaves us, though for happier shores.
And one high tone of triumph o’er thy bier,
One strain of solemn rapture, be allow’d!
Thou, that rejoicing on thy mid career,
Not to decay, but unto death hast bow’d,
In those bright regions of the rising sun,
Where victory ne’er a crown like thine had won.
Praise! for yet one more name with power endow’d
To cheer and guide us, onward as we press;
Yet one more image on the heart bestow’d
To dwell there, beautiful in holiness!
Thine, Heber, thine! whose memory from the dead
Shines as the star which to the Saviour led!

THE ADOPTED CHILD.

“Why wouldst thou leave me, O gentle child?
Thy home on the mountain is bleak and wild,
A straw-roof’d cabin, with lowly wall—
Mine is a fair and a pillar’d hall,
Where many an image of marble gleams,
And the sunshine of picture for ever streams.”
“Oh! green is the turf where my brothers play,
Through the long bright hours of the summer day;
They find the red cup-moss where they climb,
And they chase the bee o’er the scented thyme,
And the rocks where the heath-flower blooms they know—
Lady, kind lady! oh, let me go!”
“Content thee, boy! in my bower to dwell—
Here are sweet sounds which thou lovest well;
Flutes on the air in the stilly noon,
Harps which the wandering breezes tune,
And the silvery wood-note of many a bird
Whose voice was ne’er in thy mountains heard.”
“Oh! my mother sings, at the twilight’s fall,
A song of the hills far more sweet than all;
She sings it under our own green tree
To the babe half slumbering on her knee:
I dreamt last night of that music low—
Lady, kind lady! oh, let me go!”
“Thy mother is gone, from her cares to rest—
She hath taken the babe on her quiet breast;
Thou wouldst meet her footstep, my boy! no more,
Nor hear the song at the cabin door.
Come thou with me to the vineyards nigh,
And we’ll pluck the grapes of the richest dye.”
“Is my mother gone from her home away?
But I know that my brothers are there at play—
I know they are gathering the foxglove’s bell,
Or the long fern-leaves by the sparkling well;
Or they launch their boats where the bright streams flow—
Lady, kind lady! oh, let me go!”
“Fair child! thy brothers are wanderers now,
They sport no more on the mountain’s brow;
They have left the fern by the spring’s green side,
And the streams where the fairy barks were tried.
Be thou at peace in thy brighter lot,
For thy cabin home is a lonely spot.”
“Are they gone, all gone from the sunny hill?—
But the bird and the blue-fly rove o’er it still;
And the red-deer bound in their gladness free,
And the heath is bent by the singing bee,
And the waters leap, and the fresh winds blow—
Lady, kind lady! oh, let me go!”

INVOCATION.

“I call’d on dreams and visions, to disclose
That which is veil’d from waking thought; conjured
Eternity, as men constrain a ghost
To appear and answer.” Wordsworth.
Answer me, burning stars of night!
Where is the spirit gone,
That past the reach of human sight
As a swift breeze hath flown?
And the stars answer’d me—“We roll
In light and power on high;
But, of the never-dying soul,
Ask that which cannot die.”
O many-toned and chainless wind!
Thou art a wanderer free;
Tell me if thou its place canst find,
Far over mount and sea?
And the wind murmur’d in reply—
“The blue deep I have cross’d,
And met its barks and billows high,
But not what thou hast lost.”
Ye clouds that gorgeously repose
Around the setting sun,
Answer! have ye a home for those
Whose earthly race is run?
The bright clouds answer’d—“We depart,
We vanish from the sky;
Ask what is deathless in thy heart,
For that which cannot die.”
Speak then, thou voice of God within,
Thou of the deep low tone!
Answer me, through life’s restless din—
Where is the spirit flown?
And the voice answer’d—“Be thou still!
Enough to know is given:
Clouds, winds, and stars their part fulfil—
Thine is, to trust in Heaven.”

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. The monument erected to his memory is of cast-iron; and the upper part is wrought into a lyre and sword, a favourite emblem of Körner’s, from which one of his works had been entitled. Near the grave of the poet is that of his only sister, who died of grief for his loss, having only survived him long enough to complete his portrait and a drawing of his burial-place. Over the gate of the cemetery is engraved one of his own lines:—

‘Vergiss die treuen Todten nicht.’
(Forget not the faithful dead.)”

—See Richardson’s Translation of Körner’s Life and Works, and Downe’s Letters from Mecklenburg.]

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
Wept as they veil’d 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 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 bless’d 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 play’d,
And sent glad singing through the free blue sky.
Ye were but two—and when that spirit pass’d,
Woe to the one, the last!
Woe, 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![355]

[355] The following lines, addressed to the author of the above, by the venerable father of Körner, who, with the mother, survived the “Lyre, Sword, and Flower,” here commemorated, may not be uninteresting to the German reader:—

“Wohllaut tont aus der Ferne von freundlichen Luften getragen,
Schmeichelt mit lindernder Kraft sich in der Trauernden Ohr,
Starkt den erhebenden Glauben an solcher seelen Verwandschaft,
Die zum Tempel die brust nur fur das Wurdige weihn.
Aus dem Lande zu dem sich stets der gefeyerte Jungling
Hingezogen gefuhlt, wird ihm ein glazender Lohn.
Heil dem Brittischen Volke, wenn ihm das Deutsche nicht fremd ist!
Uber Lander und Meer reichen sich beyde die Hand.”
Theodor Körner’s Vater.

THE DEATH-DAY OF KÖRNER.[356]

A song for the death-day of the brave—
A song of pride!
The youth went down to a hero’s grave,
With the sword, his bride.[357]
He went, with his noble heart unworn,
And pure, and high—
An eagle stooping from clouds of morn,
Only to die.
He went with the lyre, whose lofty tone
Beneath his hand
Had thrill’d to the name of his God alone
And his fatherland.
And with all his glorious feelings yet
In their first glow,
Like a southern stream that no frost hath met
To chain its flow.
A song for the death-day of the brave—
A song of pride!
For him that went to a hero’s grave,
With the sword, his bride.
He hath left a voice in his trumpet lays
To turn the flight,
And a guiding spirit for after days,
Like a watch-fire’s light.
And a grief in his father’s soul to rest,
Midst all high thought;
And a memory unto his mother’s breast,
With healing fraught.
And a name and fame above the blight
Of earthly breath,
Beautiful—beautiful and bright,
In life and death!
A song for the death-day of the brave—
A song of pride!
For him that went to a hero’s grave,
With the sword, his bride!

[356] On reading part of a letter from Körner’s father, addressed to Mr Richardson, the translator of his works, in which he speaks of “The Death-day of his son.”

[357] See The Sword Song, composed on the morning of his death.

[As the great German writers at this time, and ever afterwards, exerted a great influence over the mind of Mrs Hemans, it may please the reader to know, on the authority of her sister, the degrees of estimation in which she held some of these. We quote from the Memoir, p. 54-8.

“She in general preferred the writings of Schiller to those of Goethe, and could for ever find fresh beauties in Wallenstein, with which she was equally familiar in its eloquent original, and in Coleridge’s magnificent translation, or, as it may truly be called, transfusion. Those most conversant with her literary tastes, will remember her almost actual relation-like love for the characters of Max and Thekla, whom, like many other ‘beings of the mind,’ she had learned to consider as friends; and her constant quotations of certain passages from this noble tragedy, which peculiarly accorded with her own views and feelings. In the Stimmen der Völker in Lieder of Herder, she found a rich store of thoughts and suggestions; and it was this work which inspired her with the idea of her own ‘Lays of Many Lands,’ most of which appeared originally in the New Monthly Magazine, then edited by Mr Campbell. She also took great delight in the dreamy beauties of Novalis and Tieck, and in what has been gracefully characterised by Mr Chorley, as the ‘moonlight tenderness’ of Oehlenschläger. Of the works of the latter, her especial favourite was Coreggio; and of Tieck, Sternbald’s Wanderungen, which she often made her out-of-doors companion. It was always an especial mark of her love for a book, and of her considering it true to nature, and to the best wisdom of the heart,[358] when she promoted it to the list of those with which she would ‘take sweet counsel’ amidst the woods and fields.

“But, amongst all these names of power, none awakened a more lively interest in her mind, than that of the noble-hearted Körner, the young soldier-bard, who, in the words of Professor Bouterwek, ‘would have become a distinguished tragic poet, had he not met with the still more glorious fate of falling on the field of battle, while fighting for the deliverance of Germany.’ The stirring events of his life, the heroism of his early death, and the beautiful tie which subsisted between him and his only sister, whose fate was so touchingly bound up with his own, formed a romance of real life which could not fail to excite feelings of the warmest enthusiasm in a bosom so ready as hers to respond to all things high and holy. The lyric of ‘The Grave of Körner,’ is, perhaps, one of the most impressive Mrs Hemans ever wrote. Her whole heart was in a subject which so peculiarly combined the two strains dearest to her nature, the chivalrous and the tender.

‘They were but two—and when that spirit pass’d,
Woe to the one, the last!’

“That mournful echo—‘They were but two,’ was, by some indefinable association, connected in her mind with another and far differing brother and sister, called into existence by the magic pen of Sir Walter Scott. The affecting ejaculation, ‘There are but two of us!’ so often repeated by the hapless Clara Mowbray in St Ronan’s Well, was frequently quoted by Mrs Hemans as an instance of the deepest pathos. The lyric in question was, it is believed, one of the first tributes which appeared in England to the memory of the author of ‘The Lyre and Sword,’ though his name has since become ‘familiar in our ears as household words.’ A translation of the ‘Life of Körner,’ with selections from his poems, &c., was published in 1827, by G. F. Richardson, Esq., whose politeness in presenting a copy of the work to Mrs Hemans, inscribed with a dedicatory sonnet, led to an interchange of letters with that gentleman, and was further the means of procuring for her the high gratification of a direct message, full of the most feeling acknowledgment, from the venerable father of the hero, who afterwards addressed to her a poetical tribute from Theodor Körner’s Father [see p. 425.] Her pleasure in receiving this genuine offering was thus expressed to Mr Richardson, who had been the medium through which it reached her. ‘Theodor Körner’s Vater!’—it is, indeed, a title beautifully expressing all the holy pride which the memory of die treuen Todten[359] must inspire; and awakening every good and high feeling to its sound. I shall prize the lines as a relic. Will you be kind enough to assure M. Körner, with my grateful respects, of the value which will be attached to them, a value so greatly enhanced by their being in his own hand. They are very beautiful, I think, in their somewhat antique and treuherzig[360] simplicity, and worthy to have proceeded from Theodor Körner’s Vater.

“The following almost literal translation of these lines is given by W. B. Chorley, Esq., in his interesting little volume, ‘The Lyre and Sword,’ published in 1834:—

‘Gently a voice from afar is borne to the ear of the mourner;
Mildly it soundeth, yet strong, grief in his bosom to soothe;
Strong in the soul-cheering faith, that hearts have a share in his sorrow,
In whose depths all things holy and noble are shrined.
From that land once dearly beloved by our brave one, the fallen,
Mourning blent with bright fame—cometh a wreath for his urn.
Hail to thee, England the free! thou see’st in the German no stranger.
Over the earth and the seas, join’d be both lands, heart and hand!’

“There was nothing which delighted Mrs Hemans more in German literature, than the cordial feeling of brotherhood, so conspicuous amongst its most eminent authors, and their freedom from all the petty rivalries and manœuvres on which she herself looked down with as much of wonder as of contempt. In a letter, in which she speaks of the bitterness, and jealousy, and strife, pervading the tone of many of our own Reviews, she adds, turning to a brighter picture with a feeling of relief, like that of one emerging from the heated atmosphere of a city to breathe the fresh air of the mountains:—‘How very different seems the spirit of literary men in Germany! I am just reading a work of Tieck’s, which is dedicated to Schlegel; and I am delighted with the beautiful simplicity of these words in the dedication:—Es war eine schöne Zeit meines Lebens, als ich dich und deinen Bruder Friedrich zuerst kennen lernte’; eine noch schönere als wir und Novalis für Kunst und Wissenschaft vereinigt lebten, und uns in mannigfaltigen Bestrebungen begegneten. Jetzt hat uns das Schicksal schon seit vielen Jahren getrennt. Ich kann nur in Geist und in der Erinnerung mit dir leben.[361] ‘Is not that union of bright minds, für Kunst und Wissenschaft, a picture on which it is delightful to repose?’”]