* WILLIAM PETER. WILLIAM PETER, the descendant of a family which has flourished for many centuries in the west of England, was born in Cornwall, educated at Christ-Church, Oxford, and studied law at Lincoln's Inn. After a few years' residence in London, he returned to his native shire, settling down at the seat of his forefathers, and dividing his time between literary and domestic pleasures and the discharge of those magisterial and other duties attached to the life of an English country gentleman. Being a zealous whig, however, of the Somers and Fox school, he was, at length, induced to enter the House of Commons, where, during the few years that he continued a member of that body, he had the satisfaction of contributing by his votes to the final triumph of many of those great principles and measures, DAMON AND PYTHIAS.† Non certes; la Vie n'est pas si aride que l'Egoisme nous l'a faite; tout n'y est pas prudence, tout n'y est pas calcul.-Mad. de Staël. "HERE, guards!" pale with fears Dionysius cries, Here, guards, yon intruder arrest ! "Tis Damon-but hah! speak, what means this disguise? And the dagger, which gleams in thy vest?" ""T was to free," says the youth, "this dear land from its chains!" "Free the land! wretched fool, thou shalt die for thy pains." "I am ready to die-I ask not to live- Whilst a friend remains here in my stead." With a sneer on his brow, and a curse in his breast, "Thou shalt have," cries the tyrant, "shalt have thy request; To thy sister's repair, on her nuptials attend, Enjoy thy three days, but-mark well what I say— Return on the third; if, beyond that fix'd day, There be but one hour's, but one moment's delay, That delay shall be death to thy friend!" Burke's "Commoners of England." This an imitation or free version of Schiller's "Bürgschaft."-For the origin of the story, see Valerins Maximus, 1. iv. c. 7. de Amicitiâ; Cic. Off. 1. iii. c. 10; and Lactant. I. v. c. 17. Pythias is called Phintias by Valerius Maximus and Cicero. in the successful advocacy of which he had, by his speeches and writings, long borne a leading part in his native county. Since his withdrawal from Parliament, he has spent two or three years in visiting different countries of Europe, and is now Her Britannic Majesty's Consul for the State of Pennsylvania. Mr. PETER'S poetical works consist of translations from the German and Italian,* scriptural paraphrases, and original pieces. His translations are remarkable for their elegance and fidelity, and all his productions for a most scholarly elaboration and finish. He is also the author of a "Memoir of Sir Samuel Romilly," as well as of several tracts, chiefly political, and in support of the principles and party to which he has been throughout life attached. Oh hush with thy breath this loud sea; The hours hurry by the sun glows on high; And should he go down, and I reach not yon town, My friend he must perish for me!" Yet the wrath of the torrent still went on increasing, And waves upon waves still dissolved without ceasing, And hour after hour hurried on; Then, by anguish impell'd, hope and fear alike o'er, He, reckless, rush'd into the water's deep roar; Rose, sunk, struggled on, till, at length, the wish'd shore, Thanks to Heaven's outstretch'd hand-it is won! But new perils await him: scarce 'scaped from the flood, And intent on redeeming each moment's delay, As onward he sped, lo! from out a dark wood, A band of fierce robbers encompass'd his way. "What would ye?" he cried, "save my life I have naught; Nay, that is the king's"-Then swift, having caught A club from the nearest, and swinging it round With might more than man's, he laid three on the ground, Whilst the rest hurried off in dismay. But the noon's scorching flame And he turns, faint and way-worn, to heaven with a sigh "From the flood and the foe Thou'st redeem'd me, and oh! Thus, by thirst overcome, must I effortless lie, And leave him, the beloved of my bosom, to die!" Scarce utter'd the word, When startled he heard Purling sounds, sweet as silver's, fall fresh on his ear; And low a small rill Trickled down from the hill! He heard and he saw, and, with joy drawing near, Laved his limbs, slaked his thirst, and renew'd his career. And now the sun's beams through the deep boughs are glowing, And rock, tree, and mountain their shadows are throwing, Huge and grim, o'er the meadow's bright bloom; And two travellers are seen coming forth on their way, And, just as they pass, he hears one of them say""Tis the hour that was fix'd for his doom." Still, anguish gives strength to his wavering flight; On he speeds; and lo now! in eve's reddening light The domes of far Syracuse blend ;- [gray There Philostratus meets him, (a servant grown In his house,) crying: "Back! not a moment's delay; No cares will avail for thy friend. "No; nothing can save his dear head from the tomb; So think of preserving thine own. Myself, I beheld him led forth to his doom; With confident soul he stood, hour after hour, Thy return never doubting to see; No sneers of the tyrant that faith could o'erpower Or shake his assurance in thee!" [grave! "And is it too late? and cannot I save His dear life? then, at least, let me share in his Yes, death shall unite us! no tyrant shall say, That friend to his friend proved untrue; he may slay, May torture, may mock at all mercy and ruth, But ne'er shall he doubt of our friendship and truth." 'Tis sunset; and Damon arrives at the gate, Sees the scaffold and multitudes gazing below; Already the victim is bared for his fate, Already the deathsman stands arm'd for the blow; When hark! a wild voice, which is echo'd around, Stay!-'tis I-it is Damon, for whom he was bound!" 66 [case; And now they sink into each other's embrace, Then, alternately gazing on each gallant youth That friendship, is not a mere name. Go: you're free; but, whilst life's dearest blessings you prove, Let one prayer of your monarch be heard, That-his past sins forgot-in this union of love And of virtue-you make him the third." THECKLA. Die Blume ist hinweg aus meinem Leben, Und kalt und farblos seh' ich's vor mir liegen. THE clouds gather fast, the oak forests moan, A maiden goes forth by the dark sea alone, The wave on the shore breaks with might, with might, And she mingles her sighs with gloomy night, Whilst her eyes are all tearfully roving. My heart, it is dead, and the world's void and drear And there's nothing to hope or to live for here. Thou Holy One, call back thy child to her rest; In the pleasure of earth I've already been blest,In the pleasure of living and loving!" Vain, vain thy regrets, vain the tears that are shed O'er the tomb; no complaints will awaken the dead; Yet oh! if there's aught to the desolate heart, For the lost light of love can a solace impart,It will not be denied thee by heaven. "Let the soul then sigh on, its tears gently fall; Though life, love, and rapture, they cannot recall, Yet the sweetest of balms to the desolate breast, For the lost love of Him, whom on earth it loved best, Are the pangs to his memory given." THE IDEAL.* Perfida sed, quamvis perfida, chara tamen. THOU, and wilt thou for ever leave me With thy bright smiles, with thy sweet sighs, In vain! Thy waves are sweeping from me The sun-smiles, the fresh blooms have perish'd, To which my trusting soul gave birth, And heaven is lost in clouds of earth. As erst, with fiercest, tenderest anguish Pygmalion clasp'd the senseless stone, And taught the death-cold breast to languish With blood, pulse, transports, as his own; Thus I, around my heart's dear treasure, Round nature, twined my wooing arms, Then, then with mutual instinct burning, Responsive to her minstrel rung: With falls more musical the fountain, With brighter hues, tree, flower were rife, The soulless breath'd from lake and mountain, And all was echo of my life. My bark, with wider sails unmooring Her realms of thought, sight, feeling, tone. How small, and oh! that small, how mean! With soul, by worldling care unblighted, With brow, unblench'd by fear or shame, How swift the car of rapture bore him, (No toils seem'd hard, no wishes vain,) But ah! as ocean's breast, unsteady, These visions fade, these joys decay, Friend after friend, they 've dropp'd away. I saw the holy crown of Glory And Love-ah, why so transitory? E'en Love's sweet flowers are withering now; Of all, the crowd,-that once were near me, Mine earliest sought and latest found. And thou, with Friendship still uniting, Though weakening none, by thy control! Yet from Time's debt, unwearied ever, CHRISTIAN LOVE. THOUGH Cowper's zeal, though Milton's fire Though holier raptures woke my lyre, Though faith, though knowledge from above "T were all but empty sound. Love suffers long; is just, sincere, To generous pity prone, No evil, no suspicious thought She harbours in her breast; She tries us by the deeds we've wrought, Love never fails; though knowledge cease, Love, Christian love, shall still increase, THE PENITENT. WITH guilt and shame opprest, Where shall I turn for rest, Where look for timely succour from despair? I try the world in vain. I court earth's fluttering train, But find, alas! no hope, no consolation, there. Now glory's trumpet-call, Oh, had I been beside his bed, But one sad kiss to share, To soothe, perchance, his throbbing head, To press his little grateful hand, But these are past. And why, my child, Now wealth, now grandeur, every thought employs; Thou wert a plant, too rare, too mild, Vain, weary, wasted hours! E'en midst life's fairest flowers Fell disappointment lurks and poisons all our joys. Then whither shall I fly? To Christ, to God, on high To Him lift up thy soul in contrite prayer! He sees the lowly heart, He will His grace impart, And e'en to sinners yield a refuge from despair. ON A DEAR CHILD. "Of such is the kingdom of God." FLOWERS for the loved, the lost! Bring flowers, The sweetest of the year; They charm'd him in life's happiest hours, And let them strew his bier. Meet emblems of a spring, like his, That bloom'd but to decay, And innocence, away. We weep, though not in bitterness, No painful recollections rise His morn-it dawn'd so blest, And, ere a cloud had dimm'd its skies, He's far away! Yet still I gaze Still mark his little winning ways, I listen for his airy tread, His voice I turn to hear, Nor knew I, till their sounds had fled, That he was half so dear. Each scene he loved,-the sandy wild, The birds, the flowers, on which he smiled,- RANN KENNEDY. MR. KENNEDY is a clergyman of the Established Church, holding an important station in Birmingham, where his high intellectual qualities and deep earnestness of feeling attach to him the hearts of all who know him. He has been already introduced to American readers, by WASHINGTON IRVING'S happy quotations from some of his poems in the "Sketch Book." Mr. KENNEDY also wrote and published, in 1837, a "Tribute in Verse to the Character of the late GEORGE CANNING;" and in 1840, his chief production, a volume from the press of Saunders and Otley, embracing "Britain's Genius; a Mask on occasion of the Marriage of Victoria," and a lyrical poem, "The Reign of Youth." The last illustrates the passions of youth as they successively arise. Wonder is succeeded by Mirth; Hope arises in the disappointment of Imagination, and Love succeeds to Ambition. DOMESTIC BLISS. THROUGH each gradation, from the castled hall, All that desire would fly for through the earth; THE MERRY BELLS OF ENGLAND. You hear, as I, the merry bells of England: Can any country of the same extent Boast of so many ?-in their size and tone Differing, yet all for harmonies combined: [cities, Cluster'd, in frequent bands, through towns and Lodgment they find in many a village tower And tapering spire, that crowns an upland lawn, Or peeps from grove and dell; while now and then, Modest and low, a steeple ivy-clad, Behind a rock, reveals its whereabout To the lone traveller, only by their tongue. Art's work they are, yet in their tendency, Somewhat like nature to the human soul. [both; Raised up 'twixt earth and heaven, they speak of They speak to all of duty and of hopeThey speak of sorrow, and of sorrow's cure. "Tis happy for a land and for its people, When the full spirits of the young and old Shall thus flow out in artlessness of sport. Waters, long pent, may swell to monstrous danger, Sullen and still, with deluge in their power. Far otherwise 't will be, when timely vents Give them to run in many a babbling rill Through vales or down the rocks, and then disperse, Yet leave a green effect on laughing fieldsStill more and more we hear those pealing bellsHow true in tone they are! . . Sweet bells, oft heard, and most, if their discourse Shall meet life's daily ear, act wholesomely Upon life's daily mind. AMBITION. YET these are but a herald band- On his heroic state, He comes!—Ambition comes; his way prepare!— And loud-voiced trumpets his approach declare! While before his champion pride His mighty thoughts, too swift for lagging time, Each deed conceived, appears already done, |