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,

"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-
Yet three days of respite, perhaps, thou may'st give,
For to-morrow, my sister will wed, [there;
And 't would damp all her joy, were her brother not
Then let me, I pray, to her nuptials repair,

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 Valerius Maximus, 1. iv. c. 7. de Amicitiâ; Cic. Off. 1. iii. c. 10; and Lactant. 1. 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.

Then to Pythias he went; and he told him his case; That true friend answer'd not, but, with instant embrace

Consenting, rush'd forth to be bound in his

room;

And now, as if wing'd with new life from above,
To his sister he flew, did his errand of love,
And, ere a third morning had brighten'd the grove,
Was returning with joy to his doom.

But the heavens interpose,

Stern the tempest arose,

And, when the poor pilgrim arrived at the shore, Swoll'n to torrents, the rills

Rush'd in foam from the hills,

And crash went the bridge in the whirlpool's wild

roar.

Wildly gazing, despairing, half phrensied he stood;
Dark, dark were the skies, and dark was the flood,
And still darker his lorn heart's emotion;
And he shouted for aid, but no aid was at hand,
No boat ventured forth from the surf-ridden strand,
And the waves sprang, like woods, o'er the lessen-
ing land,

And the stream was becoming an ocean.

Now with knees low to earth and with hands to

the skies,

"Still the storm, God of might, God of mercy!" he cries

Amongst these are Schiller's "William Tell," "Mary Stuart," the "Maid of Orleans," "Battle with the Dragon;" Manzoni's "Fifth of May," &c., &c.

"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
Soon shoots through his frame,

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;
Ere this, his brave spirit has flown.

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 !"

"And is it too late? and cannot I save [grave! 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

And now they sink into each other's embrace,
And are weeping for joy and despair. [case;
Not a soul, amongst thousands, but melts at their
Which swift to the monarch they bear;
Even he, too, is moved-feels for once as he ought-
And commands, that they both to his throne shall
be brought.

Then, alternately gazing on each gallant youth
With looks of awe, wonder, and shame-
"Ye have conquer'd," he cries. "Yes, I see now
that truth,

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, And didst thou come but to deceive me,

With all thy tender phantasies?
Can naught detain, naught overcome thee,
O golden season of life's glee?

In vain! Thy waves are sweeping from me
Into eternity's dark sea.

The sun-smiles, the fresh blooms have perish'd,
That bright around my morntide shone,
And all within this heart most cherish'd,
Life's sweet Ideal-all is gone.
The fairy visions, the gay creatures,

To which my trusting soul gave birth,
Stern reason dims their angel-features,

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, Till, giving back the throb of pleasure, She glow'd,-alive in all her charms. Then, then with mutual instinct burning, The dumb caught raptures from my tongue, And, kiss with sweetest kiss returning,

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
Stretch'd boldly forth o'er depths unknown,
With eager prow life's coasts exploring,

Her realms of thought, sight, feeling, tone.
How vast the world then, how elysian
Its prospects, in dim distance seen!
How faded now,-on nearer vision

How small, and oh! that small, how mean!

With soul, by worldling care unblighted,

With brow, unblench'd by fear or shame,
How sprang-on wings of hope delighted—
Young manhood to the lists of fame!
Far, far beyond earth's cold dominions,
High, high as light's exultant sphere,
No realms too distant for his pinions,
No worlds too bright for his career.

How swift the car of rapture bore him,

(No toils seem'd hard, no wishes vain.)
How light, how gladsome, danced before him
Imagination's sparkling train!
High Truth, in sun-bright morion glancing,
Young Glory, with his laurell'd sword,
Fortune, on golden wheels advancing,
And true Love, with its sweet reward.

But ah! as ocean's breast, unsteady,
These visions fade, these joys decay,
And, faithless, from my path already,

Friend after friend, they 've dropp'd away.
False Fortune hails some happier master,

The thirst of Lore survives my youth,
But doubt's chill clouds are gathering faster
Around the sunny form of Truth.

I saw the holy crown of Glory
Polluted on the vulgar brow;

And Love-ah, why so transitory?

E'en Love's sweet flowers are withering now; And dimmer all around, and dimmer,

Fades on the sense life's west'ring ray,
Till Hope herself scarce leaves a glimmer
To light the pilgrim on his way.

Of all, the crowd,-that once were near me,
To court, soothe, flatter, shout, carouse,
Who now is left? Who comes to cheer me,
Or follow to my last dark house?
Thou, Friendship! gentlest nurse, that bearest
Balm for all wounds, all woes around,
Who, patient, every burden sharest-

Mine earliest sought and latest found.

And thou, with Friendship still uniting,
Exorcist of the stormy soul,
Employment, all its powers exciting,

Though weakening none, by thy control!
Who, grain on grain, with fond endeavour,
Add'st to eternity's vast day,

Yet from Time's debt, unwearied ever,
Art striking weeks, months, years, away.

CHRISTIAN LOVE.

THOUGH Cowper's zeal, though Milton's fire
Inspired my glowing tongue;

Though holier raptures woke my lyre,
Than ever Seraph sung;

Though faith, though knowledge from above
Mine ardent labours crown'd;

Did I not glow with Christian love,

'T were all but empty sound.

Love suffers long; is just, sincere,

Forgiving, slow to blame;
Friend of the good, she grieves to hear
An erring brother's shame.
Meek, holy, free from selfish zeal,

To generous pity prone,
She envies not another's weal,
Nor triumphs in her own.

No evil, no suspicious thought

She harbours in her breast;

She tries us by the deeds we've wrought,
And still believes the best.

Love never fails; though knowledge cease,
Though prophecies decay,

Love, Christian love, shall still increase,
Shall still extend her sway.

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,
Now pleasure's crowded hall,

Oh, had I been beside his bed,

But one sad kiss to share,

To soothe, perchance, his throbbing head,
To hear his heart's meek prayer.

To press his little grateful hand,
To watch his patient breath,
And gaze upon that smile, so bland,
So beautiful, in death.

But these are past. And why, my child,
Should I lament thy doom?

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,
That stole, in dreams of gentle bliss

And innocence, away.

We weep, though not in bitterness,
Ours are not tears of gloom;
No thoughts, but those of tenderness,
Shall glisten round his tomb.

No painful recollections rise

His morn-it dawn'd so blest,

And, ere a cloud had dimm'd its skies,
Sweet lamb, he was at rest.

He's far away! Yet still I gaze
Upon his smiling face,

Still mark his little winning ways,
His every infant grace:

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 rocks, the lone-blue sea,-

The birds, the flowers, on which he smiled,-
Shall long be dear to me.

On earth's bleak wastes to bloom.

Oh, why should we disturb thy bliss,

(For such thy lot must be) Why wish thee in a world like this, From one, that's worthy thee?

TWYDEE.

Go, roam througn this isle; view her oak-bosom'd

towers,

View the scenes which her Stowes and her

Blenheims impart ;

See lawns, where proud wealth has exhausted its powers,

And nature is lost in the mazes of art;
Far fairer to me

Are the shades of Twydee, With her rocks, and her floods, and her wildblossom'd bowers.

Here mountain on mountain exultingly throws Through storm, mist, and snow, its bleak crags to the sky;

In their shadow the sweets of the valley repose, While streams, gay with verdure and sunshine, steal by;

Here bright hollies bloom

Through the steep thicket's gloom, And the rocks wave with woodbine, and hawthorn,

and rose.

'Tis eve; and the sun faintly glows in the west, But thy flowers, fading Skyrrid, are fragrant with

dew,

And the Usk, like a spangle in nature's dark vest, Breaks, in gleams of far moonlight, more soft on the view;

By valley and hill

All is lovely and still,

And we linger, as lost, in some isle of the blest.

Oh, how happy the man who, from fashion's cold ray, Flies to shades, sweet as these, with the one he loves best!

With the smiles of affection to gladden their day, And the nightingale's vespers to lull them to rest; While the torments of life,

Its ambition and strife,

Pass, like storms heard at distance, unheeded away.

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

DOMESTIC BLISS.

THROUGH each gradation, from the castled hall,
The city dome, the villa crown'd with shade,
But chief from modest mansions numberless,
In town or hamlet, sheltering middle life,
Down to the cottaged vale, and straw-roof'd shed,
Our Western Isle hath long been famed for scenes
Where bliss domestic finds a dwelling-place;
Domestic bliss, that, like a harmless dove,
(Honour and sweet endearment keeping guard,)
Can centre in a little quiet nest

All that desire would fly for through the earth;
That can, the world eluding, be itself
A world enjoy'd; that wants no witnesses
But its own sharers, and approving Heaven;
That, like a flower deep hid in rocky cleft,
Smiles, though 't is looking only at the sky;
Or, if it dwell where cultured grandeur shines,
And that which gives it being, high and bright,
Allures all eyes, yet its delight is drawn
From its own attributes and powers of growth-
Affections fair that blossom on its stem,
Kissing each other, and from cherish'd hope
Of lovely shoots, to multiply itself.

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.

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.

"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-
The created chieftain is himself at hand;
These shall but wait

On his heroic state,
And act at his command.

He comes!-Ambition comes; his way prepare!—
Let banners wave in air,

And loud-voiced trumpets his approach declare!
He comes!-for glory has before him raised
Her shield, with godlike deeds emblazed.
He comes, he comes!-for purposes sublime
Dilate his soul; and his exulting eye
Beams like a sun, that, in the vernal prime,
With golden promise travels up the sky.
Onward looking, far and high,

While before his champion pride
Valleys rise, and hills subside,

His mighty thoughts, too swift for lagging time,
Through countless triumphs run;

Each deed conceived, appears already done,
Foes are vanquish'd, fields are won.
E'en now, with wreaths immortal crown'd,
He marches to the sound