tinctness

and sobri

Waxing left; and it was so little visible to casual notice, that as he lounged about a room (which he did in such a manner as ety. to screen it) it was hardly perceivable. But it was a real and even a sore lameness. Much walking upon it fevered and hurt it. It was a shrunken foot, a little twisted. This defect unquestionably mortified him exceedingly, and helped to put sarcasm and misanthropy into his taste of life. Unfortunately the usual thoughtlessness of schoolboys made him feel it bitterly at Harrow. He would wake, and find his leg in a tub of water. The reader will see hereafter how he felt it, whenever it was libelled; and in Italy, the only time I ever knew it mentioned, he did not like the subject, and hastened to change it. His handsome person so far rendered the misfortune greater, as it pictured to him all the occasions on which he might have figured in the eyes of company; and, doubtless, this was a great reason why he had no better address. On the other hand, instead of

losing him any real regard or admiration, his lameness gave a touching character to both. He had a delicate white hand, of which he was proud; and he attracted attention to it by rings. He thought a hand of this description almost the only mark remaining now-a-days of a gentleman; of which it certainly is not, nor of a lady either, though a coarse one implies handiwork. He often appeared holding a handkerchief, upon which his jewelled fingers lay embedded, as in a picture. He was as fond of fine linen as a Quaker, and the remnant of his hair oiled and trimmed with all the anxiety of a Sardanapalus. The visible character to which this effeminacy gave rise appears to have indicated itself as early as his travels in the Levant, where the grand signior is said to have taken him for a woman in disguise. But he had tastes of a more masculine description. He was fond of swimming to the last, and used to push out to a good distance in the Gulf of Genoa. He was also a good horseman, and he liked to have a great dog or two about him, which is not a habit observable in timid Yet I doubt greatly whether he was a man of courage. I suspect that personal anxiety, coming upon a constitution unwisely treated, had no small hand in hastening his death in Greece. The story of his bold behaviour at sea, in a voyage to Sicily, and of Mr. Shelley's timidity, is just reversing what I conceive would have been the real state of the matter had the voyage taken place. The ac

men.

count is an impudent fiction. Nevertheless, he volunteered voyages by sea when he might have eschewed them: and yet the same man never got into a coach without being afraid. In short, he was the contradiction his father and mother had made him. To lump together some more of Smartly. his personal habits, in the style of old Aubrey, he spelt affectedly, swore somewhat, had the Northumbrian burr in his speech, and did not like to see women eat, and would merrily say that he had another reason for not liking to dine with them, which was, that they always had the wings of the chicken.

LEIGH HUNT.

THE GRAVE OF KÖRNER.

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 Wobbe'en, 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 beneath this tree 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,

"6 Vergiss die treuen Todten nicht."

Forget not the faithful dead.

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 wav'd 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 vail'd their drooping banners o'er thee. And the deep guns with rolling peel gave token

That lyre and sword were broken.

Lofty admiration

and

Re rence.

Martial.

Regret

Tenderly.

Admiration.

Affectionately.

Terror.

Tenderly.

Rising in to

Solemnity

Comfort.

Affectionate regret.

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 pin'd to share thy grave.

Fame was thy gift from others--but for her
To whom the wide earth held that only spot,
She lov'd 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 blest place by thee.

It was thy spirit, brother! which had made

The bright world glorious to her thoughtful 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,
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 answered hers no more.

The earth grew silent when thy voice departed,
The home too lonely when 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 deplor'd

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! MRS. HEMANS.