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!

"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-
Who repairest from above;
Whose sweet smiling, woe-beguiling,
Lights us with a heavenly love.
Mother mourn not-I return not-

Wherefore learn not to be blest?

Heaven's my home now, where I roam now--
I an angel, and at rest.

Why distress thee? Still I'll bless thee--
Still caress thee, though I'm fled;

Cheer life's dullness-pour heaven's fulness
Of bright glory on thy head.

Leave behind thee thoughts that bind thee-
Dreams that blind thee in their glare;

Look before thee, round thee, o'er thee---
Heaven invites thee-I am there!

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
Is waved by many a snowy hand;
And weeping eyes are on the main,

Until its verge she wanders o'er;
But, from the hour of parting pain,
That bark was never heard of more!

In her was many a mother's joy,
And love of many a weeping fair;
For her was wafted, in its sigh,

The lonely heart's unceasing prayer;
And, oh, the thousand hopes untold
Of ardent youth, that vessel bore;
Say, were they quench'd in waters cold?
For she was never heard of more!

T

When on her wide and trackless path
Of desolation, doom'd to flee,
Say, sank she 'midst the blending wrath
Of racking cloud and rolling sea?
Or, where the land but mocks the eye,
Went drifting on a fatal shore

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,
No eye hath seen-no tongue can tell
Her fate-she ne'er was heard of more!

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,
That comes when summer sunbeams die;
An amber wave, with just a surge
Of crimson on its utmost verge;
And, spread beneath, like a green ocean,
With not one single wave in motion,
Stood a thick wood; then far away,

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;
Alike departing in their hour,

Of riches, pride, and pomp, and power.
And in their shadow the red deer
Grazed as they had no hour of fear;
As never here a bow was drawn,

Nor hunter's cry rose with the dawn.