Full oft the wanderer, fortune's child, That tells of happiness and home, And guides him onward 'mid the trackless wild. When all around is hushed to rest; Where wo-worn care and grief would gladly hide. That those which once were here beloved; To friendship and affection dear, Now from this fleeting scene removed, Repose, bright star, in thy etherial sphere!' Mr. T. has our best wishes for his success. He has evidently powers worthy of cultivation; and with such principles and pure morality as these poems evince, we are sure those powers in their most advanced state of improvement, will always be applied so as to subserve the cause of religion, patriotism, and humanity. In the poems of Dr. Farmer we seem to recognize the playful effusions of an elegant and cultivated mind. With less of feeling and equal purity of sentiment, there is more of classical allusion, and more variety of language than in those just mentioned. far as we may guess a man's character by his writings, we should say, Dr. F. is an accomplished gentleman, accustomed from his childhood to polished society, and familiar with the elegant literature of the day. His volume is very miscellaneous in its contents, so much so that we do not know how to select any thing which can be fairly called a specimen of the whole. His minor pieces are all in good taste, and are most easily extracted: we shall therefore give one or two. TO NATURE. 'Hail! lovely stranger, clad in vernal flowers, Where Schuylkill's glassy wave reflects the woodland shore. Through youthful memory's faintly shaded screen, For flowers though dead, and sloping hills not green, Are cloth'd in verdure when at distance seen, And Fancy lights her lamp at Meinory's waning store Then, Nature, I beheld thee in a dream! The briar-rose clamber'd o'er thy rocky throne, Of haunted cell, where dismal torches gleam, Around that cell a feeble ray SONNET TO SORROW. Say, gentle Sorrow, tenant lone of night, Where riot runs her clam'rous, noisy dance, With senses bound in dark Oblivion's trance: The star of fancy gleams and genius shines.' The poem entitled 'Mississippian Scenery,' is of a totally different character, yet quite as respectable in its way. Mr. Mead has not endeavoured to enrich his verse with allusions to mythology, nor to make any display of learning, neither does he appeal to the reader's predelictions for subjects already associated with notions of poetry and romance; but aims (successfully, we think) at a poetical description of the most interesting features of our western states and territories, and a delineation of the future prospects of those regions. The poem, he says, was chiefly the production of my contemplative hours, spent in various seclusions of solitude, where the smiles of nature upon the borders of a wilderness remote from the gay and giddy circles of society, were the principal objects on which my mind could expatiate with delight. And even in those wild retreats, where the eye is not deluded with the vain display of pride and ostentation, and where the innocent propensities of the heart are not encumbered with the imposing restrictions of fashion, etiquette, and false politeness, there is something highly interesting to the contemplative mind. The topographical features of the western country, and what belong to the vegetable kingdom, were objects calculated to enliven the gloom of solitude, and throw addi tional delights in the way of my poetic pastime. In tracing the scenery of the Mississippi, I have not confined myself to the shores of that river, but have endeavoured to give a general survey of the whole expanse of country watered by its concentrating branches. The regions through which I have stretched my perambulations seem particularly calculated to elicit reflection and interest imagination. A wide range for the exercise of curiosity lies open. The numerous monuments of aboriginal antiquity, and what seem to be the relics of the ancient arts and civilization of a people who have totally escaped the retentive grasp of history, present themselves as so many objects floating upon the surface of the dark ocean of oblivion. In looking back through the dim vista of departed ages, towards the early state of things in the western world, the mind is lost in the dark mazes of doubt and uncertainty. A kind of pensive melancholy is all that we can enjoy in reflecting on what might have occurred in former times in those immense regions, which have, from the creation of the world till within a few cen turies ago, been unknown to the nations of other continents. But as we look forward from the national eminence which we have already attained, the prospect before us is highly interesting, and calculated to awaken the most pleasing sensations of national pride and anxiety. A progressive emigration is daily stretching the western limits of our republic into the wilderness, and adding to the sovereignty, new sources of wealth and power.' We extract the following as a specimen of the author's manner. 'From where dividing mountains meet the clouds, In hoary grandeur and in sylvan shrouds, Ten thousand floods from unfrequented plains. I view those wide expansions of the West. With peace and plenty flowing from her hand, At her approach the scythes and sickles glance, And kindle smiles 'mid scenes of want and wo; And throw around her fruitful showers of grain; The earth's green verdure and the dew-drop's glow, By his decrees the evening gently throws, 'When waves on waves in wild commotion rise, And flash the foaming surges to the skies; Or when the storms are hush'd, the waves uncurl'd Spread a smooth surface o'er the wat'ry world, Declare a God is the eternal cause, 'Where heav'n-built battlements of rocks arise, And point their glittering summits in the skies, Columbia's Genius of celestial grace, O'er realms below has fixed her resting place; To blooming shores, fann'd by the tropic gales, My empire lies. From where th' Atlantic roam, Where nature's gifts with moral bounties join, 'Ye landscapes of the west, what charms are yours! In wild luxuriance beautify the vales, And lend sweet exhalations to the gales.' The Frontier Maid, unlike the others, is sent forth anonymously; it is an imitation professedly of the style of Walter Scott, and its subject is the melancholy fate of the settlement at Wyoming, already the theme of more than one poet. The author has done himself injustice by allowing his poem to be printed in a very coarse and unhandsome style. He was not aware of the vast advantage of typographical elegance, nor how much indifferent poetry on thin foolscap is made better by being transferred to hotpressed and wire wove paper. We cannot say quite so much in direct praise of this poem as of those we have spoken of, yet as a tale it possesses no little interest. But of the poetry let the leader judge for himself, by an extract. 'Oh, who, amid the passions' strife Yes, the lov'd voice, whose accents mild |