cies," has been translated into several languages of Europe, and is, undoubtedly, one of the most profound and learned philosophical productions of our country. The volume of sermons he has published, will not be diminished by a comparison with the finest specimens of pulpit eloquence furnished us by France or England. His "Lectures on the Evidences of Christianity," do honour to American literature, and hold a high rank among the treatises of Grotius, Stilling fleet, Paley, Beattie, and those numerous writers on the same subject, who have displayed such masterly force of reason and such extent of erudition. The work which the learned and reverend author now offers to the public, fully answers the expectations excited by his prior merit, and is a masterpiece of its kind. It exhibits to us a mind enriched with all the treasures of science; is characterised by the same just and philosophical views of things; the same profound and extensive erudition; the same fertility of invention and felicity of conception and illustration, and the same neatness, perspicuity and elegance of style, that distinguish all his other performances; and we hesitate not to pronounce, will form a noble and lasting monument of his genius.

We shall be accused of indulging the language of extravagant panegyric-it is conceded that this may possibly be the case; for who that has had the happiness of being educated at the feet of the philosopher of Princeton, that accomplished scholar, and our American Aristotle, does not feel disposed to speak of him in terms of ardent and enthusiastic praise. But we are not singular in the opinion we have formed of this author, and we are perfectly assured, that the more his works are, not only read, but studied, the more highly will they be appreciated. They have already gained him honourable mention among the literati of Europe and America; and we are informed by a young gentleman lately returned from the colleges of Europe, after having finished his education there, and who himself promises to become one of the hopes of his country, that Dugal Stewart, unquestionably one of the first philosophers of the age, expressed himself in terms of high encomium of Dr. Smith, as a man of sound learning and an able and correct writer: and the approbation of Dugald Stewart is fame.

With such high and incontrovertible claims to attention, we confidently trust that this work of the reverend president will meet

with encouragement proportioned to its merit, from all those who have at heart the interests of science, or any regard for the literary character of our country. While the generosity of the public has been so grossly abused, and its patronage and favour so repeatedly lavished upon the crude effusions of ignorance and vanity, that vitiate our taste at home and injure our literary reputation abroad, it is fervently to be hoped that a performance of real science and solid merit will not be overlooked and neglected.

ORIGINAL POETRY.-FOR THE PORT FOLIO.

A DREAM.

THE rosy hour of eve had blush'd,

And dim through clouds pale Hesper shone;
All sounds save whip-poor-will were hush'd,
And sleepless Echo's fainter moan.

The poplar's darkly waving form

Bent graceful to the passing wind;
I heeded nought, for Memory's charm
To former scenes allured my mind.
The chill breeze o'er my bosom blew,

My sighs would mingle with the blast,
And tears would stream to dim my view,
Of Hope's sweet vision as it pass'd.

Still the warm tear would dim my eye,
My cheek the trickling tribute felt;

Till slumber hush'd my trembling sigh,
And softly on my senses dwelt.

No blissful vision Fancy wove,

With no sweet dream my slumbers blest;

Portrayed no scene of social love,

But sought the ocean's wavy breast.

And there a bark with quivering sail,

Paus'd on the ocean's treacherous breast, And waiting but the rising gale,

Claimed one short hour of doubtful rest.

Sad on the vessel's side I stood,

Nor heard the waves' tremendous roar, Nor mark'd the wild surrounding flood; My heart, my soul was on the shore.

There were the friends whose loves had strown With flowers the early walks of youth, Whom I from infancy had known,

And felt their love and proved their truth.

There shriek'd a mother's wild alarms;
There spoke a sister's rising pain,

And there a father's open arms,

To clasp his child were stretch'd in vain.

From yon sweet grove a zephyr flew,

And slow the unwilling vessel mov'd;

But stronger now the breezes blew,

And bore me from the scene I lov'd.

Deep from my soul arose the sigh,

More faint and faint the shore appears,

Fast fading to my aching eye,

And dimly seen through streaming tears.

I shuddered on the awful brink

Of losing this retiring view,

And fond Affection's tender link,

Still strengthen'd as the distance grew.

At length a shadowy vapour twin'd,
Cerulean round the distant short;

No sad faint view my eye could find;

My friends, my home were seen no more.

And here my heart's convulsive bound,

This trance of gloomy horror broke;
To softer scenes, and softer sounds,
My trembling senses slowly woke.

The hour was redolent and still,

To slumber hush'd the evening gale;
But waking, yet the whip-poor-will
Poured forth a melancholy wail.

Gone were the clouds; the queen of night
Lit the blue arch with silvery beam,
Illum'd the dew-drop trembling bright,

And kiss'd the meadow's feeble stream.

When Reason came with power serene,

To hush my heart's affrighted throes;
Where prone to light a happier scene,
The lovely star of Hope arose.

VINVELA.

TO THE MOON.

SLOW o'er the bosom of the eastern glade,
Slow o'er the clouds that lately veil'd her rays,
The still full moon walks forth to light the shade,
And scatter o'er the hills her cloud-emerging blaze.

Dark in the east, where late she viewless rose,
Rests the black gloom that marr'd her earliest beam;
While Hope soft whispers to my heart thy woes,

Shall, like those clouds, ere long be ting'd with pleasure's gleam.

But from the rayless bosom of the north,

Where dark Eolus prison'd his bleak store,

A cloud of sabler hue comes rolling forth, And settles on the face of Cynthia once more.

Black are the hills that meet no more her light,

Dark wave the forests to the breezes hoarse;

While she, unmindful of the nether night,

Beneath her sable curtain winds her wisely-ordered course.

Thus is it with the heaven-aspiring soul,
Decreed to dwell on earth, but pois'd on high,
O'er her bright surface clouds of sorrow roll,
But cannot change her course, nor bid her glory die.

Not by the passing clouds of life dismayed,
Nor from her venerated centre driven;
She sheds new lustre o'er affliction's shade,
And gives a never-fading beam of light to heaven.

VINVELA.

TO A DEAD BEAN-FLOWER.

HENCE with thy mouldering leaf, dear flower,

Nor feed a deeper sense of pain;

Nor mind me of a happier hour,
Than I can ever know again.
I do not mourn thy early doom,

These tears and faded cheeks of mine
Bear silent witness that the bloom
Of pleasure was as frail as thine.
Thou wast so fresh, so sweet and fair,
When fondly on my bosom thrown;
But now I find thee mould'ring there,
Thy sweets exhal'd, thy glories flown.

I was so weak, so pale and still,

I thought my harp forever hush'd;
But hark, I hear its mournful trill,
And feel my faded features flush'd.
It is my wither'd flower that brings
To these cold palid cheeks a glow;
'Tis Memory's sigh that wakes the strings,
They blush to hear the numbers flow.