Full oft the wanderer, fortune's child,
Benighted, sad, and doomed to roam,
Beholds with joy thy aspect mild,

That tells of happiness and home,

And guides him onward 'mid the trackless wild.
Oft, too, the sea-boy marks thy beam,
When ocean sleeps in peaceful calm;
While o'er its breast thy gentle gleam,
Plays wanton, and with sacred charm,
Lulls the rapt soul in fancy's pleasing dream.
And oft, sweet star, at even-tide,

When all around is hushed to rest;
My thoughts ascend and pensive glide,
To distant climes and regions blest,

Where wo-worn care and grief would gladly hide.
And fancy whispers in mine ear,

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,
Nymph of the cavern wild and mountain hoar;
The times have past since I beheld thy bowers,
When listless childhood spent the fleeting hours,

Where Schuylkill's glassy wave reflects the woodland shore.

Through youthful memory's faintly shaded screen,
They still appear'd as lovely as before:

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,
And clustering bent above a murmuring stream:
So childhood bends attentive to the theme

Of haunted cell, where dismal torches gleam,
Or wizards dance, or dead men dwell alone.
This rifted fragment o'er the deep
In awful grandeur lowers;
Within yon cavern fairies sleep
On Ocean's sparkling flowers.
There, Mystery, in dripping shroud,
Waves her dull sceptre round-
The bolt that bursts the thunder cloud
Rends not her cell profound.

Around that cell a feeble ray
Is sometimes seen to beam;
It leads the pilgrim from his way,
O'er fen, and moor, and stream.
So Hope, thy little taper shines,
Unquench'd by winter's blast:
So he that follows soon repines,
For he's deceived at last.'

SONNET TO SORROW.

Say, gentle Sorrow, tenant lone of night,
Where is thy mystic solitary bower?
Does Genius, there, display her beaming light,
And art thou govern'd by her fairy power?-
The vulgar soul his joy alone explores,

Where riot runs her clam'rous, noisy dance,
Or where supine eternal Dulness snores,

With senses bound in dark Oblivion's trance:
But fair refinement to thy power is given,
For thee hath youthful Genius struck the lyre;
Thou art the daughter pure of poet's heaven,
That first essay'd bright fancy to inspire;
Yes, Sorrow! in thy bower of drooping vines,

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,
Missouri travels, and remotely drains

Ten thousand floods from unfrequented plains.
Through shady realms his rapid torrents roar,
And wash unseen the wood-encumber'd shore.
From lands afar his darksome waters roll,
Through gloomy wilds where painted Indians stroll.
With fancy cheer'd, with solitude imprest,

I view those wide expansions of the West.
My wand'ring muse in depths of woods regales,
Where Sol and Cynthia only light the vales:
There in Columbia's regions wrapt in shade,
And dark with trees e'er since the world was made.
No lofty domes nor temples there are giv'n,
With glitt'ring spires high pointing up to heav'n.
There agriculture never found its way,
And beaming science never cast a ray.
There barb'rous nations still pursue their game,
And the rude Indian woos his tawny dame.
No gardens there, in flow'ry charms array'd,
Unfold their blossoms to the blooming maid;
No fruitful orchards rural charms display,
Nor sportive lambs in green savannas play.
But as I look beyond some future years,
The scene is chang'd; a brighter scene appears.
Columbia's bosom drops its rude attire,
And AGRICULTURE seems to triumph there,

With peace and plenty flowing from her hand,
She strips the forest from the smiling land.
The trees, though stubborn, to her mandates yield,
And wolves resign to playful lambs the field.

At her approach the scythes and sickles glance,
And through the soil the clumsy ploughshares dance;
While useful arts, which laurel wreaths entwine,
Make ev'ry workshop in each village shine.
Science shall give community a glow,

And kindle smiles 'mid scenes of want and wo;
Instead of dark and dismal shades, shall rise
More pleasing scenes to greet the stranger's eyes.
Ceres shall cheer each solitary plain,

And throw around her fruitful showers of grain;
Rich fields of harvest rise within the vales,
And breathe their fragrance to the western gales.
Each well stor'd mansion with an open door,
Receive the wand'rer and the foodless poor.
O'er Indian mounds the Christian temples rise,
And lift their spiral grandeur to the skies.
Tall waving poplars grace the green retreat,
And drooping willows shade the rural seat.'
'In lone retreats of solitude appear
The hand of God, in every object near;

The earth's green verdure and the dew-drop's glow,
His power, his skill and omnipresence show.
"Tis he who makes night's portals wide expand,
And pours a flood of day o'er sea and land.
And when the sun meridian heights regains,
And spreads effulgence through the etherial plains:
'Mid all his works our rolling orb of day
With dazzling charms is but one feeble ray.
When light but faintly lingers in the West,
And weariness invites us all to rest,

By his decrees the evening gently throws,
Her sable curtains o'er our soft repose.

'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,
All nature rul'd by universal laws,

Declare a God is the eternal cause,
Of all that move in ocean, earth, or air;
That life proceeds from his creative pow'r,
And that to him belong our grateful praise,
From love-warm'd hearts and unaffected lays.

'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;
She looks on Europe with compassion's gaze,
And to the world repeats her welcome lays.
"Come here, ye needy; see what treasures lie,
In shady worlds beneath the western sky.
From where drear winter chills the lap of May,
And icy lakes reflect the face of day,

To blooming shores, fann'd by the tropic gales,
Where o'er the land eternal spring prevails,

My empire lies. From where th' Atlantic roam,
I stretch my regions to the western shores.
The mountains, plains, the lakes and rivers fair,
Are all the subjects of my guardian care.
Where states are form'd, my splendid cities rise,
And lofty structures penetrate the skies;
I've led my children to the scenes of war,
And shower'd them laurels upon victory's car,
Freedom's celestial flame taught them to fan,
And guard from tyranny the rights of man;
The rights of conscience to them all I've given,
Free as the air they breathe, or light of heav'n.
My hardy subjects, generous, bold, and free,
Now wave my banners over every sea;
My commerce rolls to every distant shore,
And kings and despots dread my rising pow'r."
High o'er the land, with wings of light unfurl'd,
Thus speaks the Genius of the western world;
And beckoning with her bright celestial wand,
Invites the pilgrims to her happy land,

Where nature's gifts with moral bounties join,
To make with comfort every cottage shine.

'Ye landscapes of the west, what charms are yours!
Green waving forests, and wide wastes of flow'rs,

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
Has clasp'd the heart's first stake in life,
With interchange of hopes and fears,
And holy vows, and prayers, and tears,
And will not say, 'tis heavenly sweet
When lovers in their sorrows meet?

Yes, the lov'd voice, whose accents mild
Have had, for years, the magic power
To thrill the heart with throbbings wild,
In such a drear and sacred hour,
Gives to each hope it would employ
A touch of heavenly light and joy!
And though the heart in softness melt,
With joys and griefs before unknown;
Yet then are glory's breathings felt
And feeling takes its loftiest tone;