The Mariner, Who bides the tempest's fiercest blaze, Bid not to fear; Though thunders hurtle in the air, The Launcher of the thunder's there. Tell those who fear Their sins can never be forgiven, To be of cheer-- If they have call'd on God and striven, There's mercy for them still in Heaven. For the Southern Literary Messenger. ON SEEING THE JUNCTION OF THE SUSQUEHANNA AND LACKAWANNA RIVERS. Rush on, broad stream, in thy power and pride, To claim the hand of thy promis'd bride,-- She doth haste from the realm of the darken'd mine, To mingle her murmur'd vows with thine; Ye have met, ye have met,--and the shores prolong The liquid tone of your nuptial song. Methinks ye wed as the white man's son And the child of the Indian king have done; I saw thy bride as she strove in vain To cleanse her brow from the carbon stain,-- But the dowry she brings, is so rich and true, That thy love must not shrink from the tawny hue. Her birth was rude in the mountain cell, And her infant freaks there are none to tell; The path of her beauty was wild and free, And in dell and forest she hid from thee,-- But the time of her fond caprice is o'er, And she seeks to part from thy breast no more. Pass on, in the joy of your blended tide, Thro' the land where the blessed Miquon[1] died; No red man's blood with its guilty stain, Hath cried unto God, from that green domain; With the seeds of peace they have seen the soil Bring a harvest of wealth for their hour of toil. On,--on,--thro' the vale where the brave ones sleep, Where the waving foliage is rich and deep; I have look'd from the mountain and roam'd thro' the glen, To the beautiful homes of the western men, Yet naught in that realm of enchantment could see, So fair as the Vale of Wyoming to me. L. H. S. _Hartford, Conn._ [Footnote 1: The Indian name for William Penn.] For the Southern Literary Messenger. HOPES AND SORROWS. The fitful beam Of the rippled fountain, The purple gleam Of the eve-lit mountain, The vanishing glance Of the meteors motion, The lights that dance On the darkened ocean, Are the faithful types of the _hopes_ that won us, While the dew of our youth still sparkled upon us. The arid sands Of the sun-dried river, The rock that stands Where lightnings quiver, The pitiless rush Of the earthquake's ruin, The startling hush Of the sea-storm brewing, Are as truly types of the _sorrows_ that found us, When the hopes that we nursed had all fled from around us. For the Southern Literary Messenger. THE WANDERER. BY ALEX. LACEY BEARD, M.D.