ous, unfathomable, undying, immortal part
of man; that immaterial essence, which contemplates upon past and
future scenes, from which emanates all our thoughts and passions--and
all our happiness or misery. If we would have our composition correct,
the mind must be well cultivated, for that, like a well cultivated
garden, will produce fine fruit and beautiful flowers, where no noxous
weed should be allowed to intrude, or delicate plant wither and die
for want of culture. The mind should be strengthened and nourished
by solid reading, well digested. The rich volume of nature lies open
before us, where all who will read, may improve the intellect.

Do we seek for the beautiful? we see it around us in the gently
sloping hill, the verdant vale, the fragrant flowers, and the
whispering rill, and the ten thousand varied beauties with which
nature is decked. Or seek we for the sublime, we must contemplate the
whirlwind in its fury, the vivid lightning's flash, and the deep toned
thunder, reverberating peal on peal, the mountain torrent, dashing
down the stupendous height, and hurrying to embosom itself in the
ocean below; or the forest, standing unbroken in its silent majesty,
till the thoughts instinctively rise from the sublimities of nature,
to nature's God, the maker and former of them all.

Composition is said to be the index of the mind, if so, how necessary
it is that there should be no improper word or idea expressed, no blot
or tarnish should be upon the fair page; how chaste and elegant should
be the diction, how pure and refined the idea, how simple and concise
the expression. It should be like the glassy lake that reflects an
unclouded sky--the mirror of a spotless mind.

Lines, Written in Answer to the Question "Where Is Our Poet?"

Ask you for the poet lyre?
What can touch his soul with fire,
When from ev'ry passing cloud
The storm-king whistles shrill and loud,
And nature shrieks her requiem wild,
O'er summer, her departed child.
When through the shortened winter day
The languid sun sheds sickly ray,
And struggling moonbeams seem at most,
Dim meteor forms of Ossian's ghost.
Then shall not I, a feeble maid,
Of the Muses be afraid?
When poets sleep with talents fine,
Shall I approach the "sacred Nine?"
But when I heard the vesper bell
Mournful peal its sad farewell;
And murmuring through the evening air,
Echo only answered, "where?"
I thought I'd chase my f