Around us and above us, sounding on Voice that art heard through every age and elime, That lends no heeding to the sounds of Time, O voice, that dwellest in the hallow'd deep Thou dost no earthly pomp about thee cast, Who, who to CONSCIENCE doth not bow at last, Old arbiter of Time-the present and the past! Thou wast from God when the green earth was young, When faultless woman to his bosom clung, Or led him through her paradise of bowers; Where love's low whispers from the Garden rose, In the long luxury of their first repose! When the whole earth was incense, and there went WILLIAM B. 0. PEABODY, 1799-1847. WILLIAM BOURNE OLIVER PEABODY, son of Judge Oliver Peabody, of Exeter, New Hampshire, was born in that town, July 9, 1799,' and, after completing his preparatory studies at Phillips Academy, in his native town, he entered Harvard He had a twin-brother, Oliver William Bourne Peabody: the two fitted for college together at Exeter Academy, and graduated together. Oliver studied law College, where he graduated in 1816. In 1820, he became the pastor of a Unitarian congregation at Springfield, Massachusetts, where he resided till his death, on the 28th of May, 1847.1 Besides the faithful discharge of his parochial duties, Mr. Peabody wrote numerous articles for the "North American Review" and the "Christian Examiner," and is the author of many beautiful occasional pieces of poetry, of which none deserves more to be remembered than his HYMN OF NATURE. God of the earth's extended plains! Where man might commune with the sky: God of the dark and heavy deep! The waves lie sleeping on the sands, Hath summon'd up their thundering bands; God of the forest's solemn shade! When, side by side, their ranks they form, God of the light and viewless air! Where summer breezes sweetly flow, The fierce and wintry tempests blow; God of the fair and open sky! How gloriously above us springs at first, but afterwards turned his attention more to literature, and assisted Alexander H. Everett, in 1831, in the editorship of the "North American Review." Subsequently he studied theology, settled in Burlington, Vermont, and died July 6, 1848. Read a discourse delivered at his funeral by Rev. Ezra Stiles Gannett, D.D., and an article in the "Christian Examiner," September, 1847. The tented dome, of heavenly blue, God of the rolling orbs above! Thy name is written clearly bright And every spark that walks alone God of the world! the hour must come, Her incense-fires shall cease to burn; LYDIA MARIA CHILD. LYDIA MARIA FRANCIS, though born in Massachusetts, spent the early portion of her youth in Maine. While on a visit to her brother, the Rev. Convers Francis, of Watertown, in the latter part of 1823, she was prompted to write her first work by reading, in the "North American Review," an article on Yamoyden, in which the writer (John G. Palfrey, D.D.) eloquently describes the adaptation of early New England history to the purposes of fiction; and in less than two months her first work, Hobomok, appeared,-a tale founded upon the early history of New England, which was received with very great favor. The next year appeared the Rebels, a tale of the Revolution. In 1828, she was married to David Lee Child, Esq., a lawyer of Boston, and subsequently the editor of the "National Anti-Slavery Standard." In 1827, she commenced the Juvenile Miscellany, a monthly magazine for children. It was an admirable work, and some of Mrs. Child's best pieces are to be found in it. She next issued the Frugal Housewife, a work on domestic economy, designed for families of limited means, and a most useful book for all. In 1831 appeared The Mother's Book, full of excellent counsel for training children; and, in 1832, The Girl's Book. Soon after, she prepared the lives of Madame de Staël, Madame Roland, Madame Guyon, and Lady Russell, for the Ladies' Family Library, which were followed by the Biography of Good Wives, and The History of the Condition of Women in all Ages, in two volumes. The year 1833 is an important era in the history of this accomplished lady, as in it she took her stand, nobly and ably, upon the side of the great anti-slavery movement, and published An Appeal for that Class of Americans called Africans, a work of great power, and which produced much sensation. In 1835 appeared Philothea, a classical romance of the days of Pericles and Aspasia. This is the most scholarly and elaborate of her productions, and shows an intimate acquaintance with the history and the literature of that most brilliant age. In 1841, Mr. and Mrs. Child removed from Boston to New York, and became the editors of the "National Anti-Slavery Standard." In the same year she commenced a series of letters for the "Boston Courier," which were afterwards republished in two volumes, with the title of Letters from New York; a pleasant series of descriptions of every-day life in that great city, and abounding with philosophical and thoughtful truth. In 1846, Mrs. Child published a collection of her magazine-stories under the title of Fact and Fiction. Her last work, one of the most elaborate she has undertaken, is entitled The Progress of Religious Ideas, embracing a View of every Form of Belief, from the most Ancient Hindoo Records, to the Complete Establishment of the Papal Church.2 MARIUS. SUGGESTED BY A PAINTING BY VANDERLYN, OF MARIUS SEATED AMONG THE RUINS OF CARTHAGE. Pillars are fallen at thy feet, And thou alone art there. No change comes o'er thy noble brow, It cannot bend thy lofty soul, And Genius hath electric power, 1 When this work of Mrs. Child's appeared, Dr. Channing, it is said, was so delighted with it that he at once walked from Boston to Roxbury to see the author, though a stranger to him, and to thank her for it. 2 Of Mrs. Child's writings an English reviewer thus speaks:-" Whatever comes to her from without, whether through the eye or the car, whether in nature or art, is reflected in her writings with a halo of beauty thrown about it by her own fancy; and, thus presented, it appeals to our sympathies and awakens an interest which carves it upon the memory in letters of gold. But she has yet loftier claims to respect than a poetical nature. She is a philosopher, and, better still, a religious philosopher. Every page presents to us scraps of wisdom, not pedantically put forth, as if to attract admiration, but thrown out by the way, in seeming unconsciousness, and as part of her ordinary thoughts." Bright suns may scorch, and dark clouds lower- The dreams we loved in early life May melt like mist away; High thoughts may seem, 'mid passion's strife, And proud hopes in the human heart May be to ruin hurl'd, Like mouldering monuments of art Yet there is something will not die, A STREET SCENE. The other day, as I came down Broome Street, I saw a streetmusician playing near the door of a genteel dwelling. The organ was uncommonly sweet and mellow in its tones, the tunes were slow and plaintive, and I fancied that I saw in the woman's Italian face an expression that indicated sufficient refinement to prefer the tender and the melancholy to the lively "trainer tunes" in vogue with the populace. She looked like one who had suffered much, and the sorrowful music seemed her own appropriate voice. A little girl clung to her scanty garments, as if afraid of all things but her mother. As I looked at them, a young lady of pleasing countenance opened the window, and began to sing like a bird, in keeping with the street-organ. Two other young girls came and leaned on her shoulder; and still she sang on. Blessings on her gentle heart! It was evidently the spontaneous gush of human love and sympathy. The beauty of the incident attracted attention. A group of gentlemen gradually collected round the organist; and ever as the tune ended, they bowed respectfully toward the window, waved their hats, and called out, "More, if you please!" One, whom I knew well for the kindest and truest soul, passed round his hat; hearts were kindled, and the silver fell in freely. In a minute, four or five dollars were collected for the poor woman. She spoke no word of gratitude; but she gave such a look! "Will you go to the next street, and play to a friend of mine?" said my kind-hearted friend. She answered, in tones expressing the deepest emotion, "No, sir: God bless you all; God bless you all," (making a courtesy to the young lady, who had stepped back, and stood sheltered by the curtain of the window :) "I will play no more to-day; I will go home, now." The tears trickled down her cheeks, and, as she walked away, she ever and anon wiped her eyes with the corner |