"Tis not the lack of gold, father,
Nor lack of worldly gear;
My lands are broad and fair to see,
My friends are kind and dear;
My kin are leal and true, father,
They mourn to see my grief,
But, oh! 'tis not a kinsman's hand
Can give my heart relief!

'Tis not that Janet's false, father,
'Tis not that she's unkind;
Though busy flatterers swarm around,
I know her constant mind.
'Tis not the coldness of her heart
That chills my laboring breast,—

It's that confounded cucumber

I ate, and can't digest!

DAMON AND PYTHIAS; OR, TRUE FRIENDSHIP. William Peter,

“HERE, guards !" pale with fear, Dionysius, cries, "Here guards, yon intruder arrest!

'Tis Damon-but ha! speak, what means this disguise? And the dagger which gleams in thy vest?"

"Twas 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,

And 'twould damp all her joy, were her brother not there;
Then let me, I pray, to her nuptials repair,

While 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 repair, and her nuptials attend,

Enjoy thy three days, but-mark well what I say-
Return on the third; if, beyond that fixed day,
There be but one hour's, but one moment's delay,
That delay shall be death to thy friend!",

Then to Pythias he went; and he told him his case;
That true friend answered not, but, with instant embrace,
Consenting, rushed forth to be bound in his room;
And now, as if winged with new life from above,
To his sister he flew, did his errand of love,
And, ere a third morning had brightened 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

Rushed in foam from the hills,

And crash went the bridge in the whirlpool's wild roar.
Wildly gazing, despairing, half frenzied 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 lessening 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-
"O, 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 impelled, hope and fear alike o'er,
He, reckless, rushed into the water's deep roar;
Rose-sunk-struggled on-till, at length, the wished shore,-
Thanks to Heaven's outstretched 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 encompassed his way.

"What would ye?" he cried, "save my life, I have nought;" "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,
While 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 redeemed me, and oh!

Thus, by thirst overcome, must I effortless lie,

And leave him, the beloved of my bosom, to die?"

Scarce uttered the word,

When startled he heard

Purling sounds, sweet as silver's, fall fresh on his ear;
And lo! 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 renewed 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 travelers are seen coming forth on their way,
And just as they pass, he hears one of them say—
""Tis the hour that was fixed 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;-

There Philostratus meets him, (a servant grown gray
In his house,) crying, "Back! not a moment's delay
No cares can avail for thy friend.

"No; nothing can save his dear head from the tomb;
So think of preserving thy 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 can not I save

His dear life? then, at least, let me share in his grave.
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 armed for the blow;
When hark! a wild voice which is echoed around,
"Stay!-'tis I-it is Damon, for whom he was bound!"

And now they sink in each other's embrace,
And are weeping for joy and despair;

Not a soul, among thousands, but melts at their case;
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 conquered!" he cries, "yes, I see now that truth,That friendship is not a mere name.

Go;-you're free; but, while 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."

ADVICE TO A FIRE COMPANY.

IT having been announced to me, my young friends, that you were about forming a fire-company, I have called you together to give you such directions as long experience in a first-quality engine company qualifies me to communicate. The moment you hear an alarm of fire, scream like a pair of panthers. Run any way, except the right way,-for the furthest way round is the nearest way to the fire. If you happen to run on the top of a wood-pile, so much the better, you can then get a good view of the neighborhood. If a light breaks on your view, "break" for it immediately; but be sure you don't jump into a bow window. Keep yelling, all the time; and, if you can't make night hideous enough yourself, kick all the dogs you come across, and set them yelling, too; 'twill help amazingly. A brace of cats dragged up stairs by the tail would be a powerful auxiliary." When you reach the scene of the fire, do all you can to convert it into a scene of destruction. Tear down all the fences in the vicinity. If it be a chimney on fire, throw salt down it; or, if you can't do that, perhaps the best plan would be to jerk off the pumphandle and pound it down. Don't forget to yell, all the while, as it will have a prodigious effect in frightening off the fire. The louder the better, of course; and the more ladies in the vicinity, the greater necessity for "doing it brown." Should the roof begin to smoke, get to work in good earnest, and make any man smoke" that interrupts you. If it is summer, and there are fruit-trees in the lot, cut them down, to prevent the fire from roasting the apples. Don't forget to yell! Should the stable be threatened, carry out the cowchains. Never mind the horse-he'll be alive and kicking; and if his legs don't do their duty, let them pay for the roast. Ditto as to the hogs;-let them save their own bacon, or smoke for it. When the roof begins to burn, get a crow-bar and pry away the stone steps; or, if the steps be of wood, procure an axe and chop them up. Next, cut away the washboards in the basement story; and, if that don't stop the flames, let the chair-boards on the first floor share a similar fate. Should the devouring element" still pursue the even tenor of its way," you had better ascend to the second story. Pitch out the pitchers, and tumble out the tumblers. Yell all the time!

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If you find a baby abed, fling it into the second story window of the house across the way; but let the kitten carefully down in a work-basket. Then draw out the bureau drawers, and empty their contents out of the back window; telling somebody below to upset the slop-barrel and rain-water hogshead at the same time. Of course, you will attend to the mirror. The further it can be thrown, the more pieces will

be made. If anybody objects, smash it over his head. Do not, under any circumstances, drop the tongs down from the second story; the fall might break its legs, and render the poor thing a cripple for life. Set it straddle of your shoulders, and carry it down carefully. Pile the bed clothes carefully on the floor, and throw the crockery out of the window. By the time you will have attended to all these things, the fire will certainly be arrested, or the building be burnt down. In either case, your services will be no longer needed; and, of course, you require no further directions.

GLORIOUS NEW ENGLAND.-S. S. Prentiss.

GLORIOUS New England! thou art still true to thy ancient fame, and worthy of thy ancestral honors. We, thy children, have assembled in this far distant land to celebrate thy birthday. A thousand fond associations throng upon us, roused by the spirit of the hour. On thy pleasant valleys rest, like sweet dews of morning, the gentle recollections of our early life; around thy hills and mountains cling, like gathering mists, the mighty memories of the Revolution; and far away in the horizon of thy past gleam, like thy own bright northern lights, the awful virtues of our pilgrim sires! But while we devote this day to the remembrance of our native land, we forget not that in which our happy lot is cast. We exult in the reflection, that though we count by thousands the miles which separate us from our birth-place, still our country is the same. We are no exiles meeting upon the banks of a foreign river, to swell its waters with our home-sick tears. Here floats the same banner which rustled above our boyish heads, except that its mighty folds are wider, and its glittering stars increased in number.

The sons of New England are found in every state of the broad republic! In the East, the South, and the unbounded West, their blood mingles freely with every kindred current. We have but changed our chamber in the paternal mansion; in all its rooms we are at home, and all who inhabit it are our brothers. To us the Union has but one domestic hearth; its household gods are all the same. Upon us, then, peculiarly devolves the duty of feeding the fires upon that kindly hearth; of guarding with pious care those sacred household gods.

We cannot do with less than the whole Union; to us it admits of no division. In the veins of our children flows Northern and Southern blood; how shall it be separated?who shall put asunder the best affections of the heart, the