# The Literary Souvenir for 1825/The Grave of Körner

THE
GRAVE OF KÖRNER.
BY MRS. HEMANS.
Charles Theodore Körner, the celebrated young German Poet and Soldier, was killed in a skirmish with a detachment of French troops, on the 26th August, 1813, a few hours after the composition of his popular piece, "The Sword-song." He was buried at the village of Wöbbelin, in Mecklenburgh, 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:—"Vergiss die treuen Tödten nicht."—Forget not the faithful Dead.—See Downes' Letters from Mecklenburgh, and Körner's Prussische Aufsätze, &c. Von C. A. Tiedge.
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 poured,
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 hushed 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 crowned bier to slumber warriors bore thee And with true hearts, thy brethren of the fight Wept as they veiled their drooping banners o'er thee, And the deep guns with rolling peals 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 bowed 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 grove.
Fame was thy gift from others—but for her To whom the wide earth 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 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 played, And sent glad singing through the free blue sky! Ye were but two!—and when that spirit passed, Woe for the one, the last!
Woe, yet not long!—She lingered 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 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 perished—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!