constant dread of being haunted by spectres. Black or luminous bodies seem to float before the vision; he conceives that vermin and all sorts of impure things are crawling upon him, and is constantly endeavouring to pick them off. His ideas are wholly confined to himself and his own affairs, of which he entertains the most disordered notions. He imagines that he is away from home, forgets those who are around him, and is irritated beyond measure by the slightest contradiction. But Delirium Tremens may be cured -there are other evils, altogether in curable, that beset the drunkard-such as Madness! Sometimes he becomes fierce and intractable, and requires a strait-jacket to keep him in order. He never gets drunk without being insanely outrageous-he attacks without distinction all who come in his wayfoams at the mouth-and loses all

sense alike of danger, punishment, and crime. This fit goes off in a few hours, or degenerates into lunacy. More generally, however, the madness of intoxication is of another character, partaking of the nature of idiotism, into which state the mind resolves itself, in consequence of a long-continued falling off in the intellectual powers. Finally, Bedlam, St Luke's, Private Madhouses, and that melancholy Isle of Loch-Lomond !

The article is done; so we bid Mr Macnish farewell, with sincere admiration of his talents. To those who stand in need of advice and warning, this Treatise is worth a hundred sermons. As a literary composition, its merits are very high-and we hope soon again to meet the most ingenious and able author either in the same, or some other department.

THE CALM SEA.

The gentle breeze that curl'd the sea had slowly died away,
And stretch'd in glassy stillness now, the wide blue waters lay,
The sea bird's cry was heard no more, and soft as infant's sleep
Was the holy calm that lay upon the bosom of the deep.

But yesterday the storm had raged, and shook the mighty ocean,
That dash'd aloft its foamy waves, and heaved in wild commotion;
To-day you might have thought no storm had ever touch'd its breast,
As it lay a mighty emblem of mild majesty and rest.

Is there such calm for mortal breasts when storms have once been there,
When passion wild has swept along, and heart corroding care?
When guilt has once disturbed the soul, and mark'd it with its stain,
Can tranquil softness of the heart be ever ours again?

Yes-But it is not of this world, the peace that must be sought,
And with the soul's repentant tears it can alone be bought;
Then, as it meekly bows to kiss affliction's chastening rod,
The broken and the contrite heart shall feel the peace of God.

W. J.

THY memory, as a spell

Of love, comes o'er my mindAs dew upon the purple bell

As perfume on the wind

As music on the sea

As sunshine on the river

So hath it always been to me,
So shall it be for ever.

I hear thy voice in dreams

Upon me softly call,

TO A CHILD.

Like echo of the mountain streams
In sportive waterfall.

I see thy form as when

Thou wert a living thing,

And blossom'd in the eyes of men
Like any flower of spring.

Thy soul to heaven hath filed
From earthly thraldom free;
Yet, 'tis not as the dead

That thou appear'st to me.
In slumber I behold

Thy form, as when on earth-
Thy locks of waving gold-
Thy sapphire eye of mirth.

I hear, in solitude,

The prattle kind and free,
Thou uttered'st in joyful mood
While seated on my knee.
So strong each vision seems,
My spirit that doth fill,

I think not they are dreams,
But that thou livest still.

A MODERN PYTHAGOREAN.

LINES, SACRED TO THE MEMORY OF

THE REV. EDWARD WILLIAM BARNARD,

His saltem accumulem donis.

FAREWELL, blest shade! nor deem, though mute the lyre,
No tears are shed for thee, no hopes aspire
To follow where thou lead'st the glorious way!
Great griefs conceal what lighter woes display.
Deep is thy memory seated in this heart,
Nor thence shall ever-save with life-depart.

Oh! could, like thine, my fingers sweep the shell!
When Time shall cast o'er me his soothing spell,
And dry the sorrows that now flood mine
As soft remembrances within me rise-
Thy genius should not want its equal fame;

eyes,

Praise, deathless praise, should tend upon thy name:
In each bright verse-were such rare talent mine-
Should glow the Fair, the Good-for those were thine :
Thy wit, taste, fancy, should be hymn'd in turn;
Thy thoughts that kindle, and thy "words that burn :"
As in thine own Flaminio, learn'd and sweet,
The Pure and Pious in chaste bond should meet :

With lyric grace, or elegiac woe

Thine were both arts-th' alternate strain should flow;
And the light world, lesson'd for once by me,
Should feel and mourn what it has lost in thee.

-It may not be too weak the faltering song
To match thy worth, might haply do thee wrong:
Panting to see thee girt with glory's ray,

I would not mar it by my tear-dimm'd lay. Time's hastening hand shall stamp thy sure renown, And for thy temples weave his greenest crown; While, as around thy fame proud echoes swell, Our tender thoughts shall on thy virtues dwell, And pleased to mark these earthly honours given, With holier rapture hail the wreath thou wear'st in heaven. FRS. WRANGHAM. Chester, Jan. 1828.

BLUE STOCKINGS OVER THE BORDER.

READ, quickly read, for your honours, ye Oxford men!
Why don't you read Greek and Latin in order?
Pass o'er the Ass's Bridge, sons of the Cambridge Fen!
All the Blue Stockings are crossing the Border!
Their banner is flying,

They're "Victory" crying,

They'll solve ev'ry Problem in Euclid before ye-
Come from the rowing match,
Glee-club, and merry catch,
Read for a Class and the old College glory!
Ye Dons and Professors arise from your slumbers,
Open your books—put your studies in order-
The danger is pressing, in spite of your numbers,
For the Blue Stockings are crossing the Border!

Descend from your Tilburies, Gents of the long Robe,

Read Briefs-for their steps to the Woolsack they bend; The depths of your science, ye Doctors, they'll soon probe, With old Esculapius the Blues would contend! Their clack is resounding,

With hard words abounding;

Steam-guns are their weapons, which cause great disorder. By Gas they're enlighten'd

By nothing they're frighten'd,

The dauntless Blue Stockings who pass o'er the Border!
Read for your honours, then, Oxford and Cambridge men!
Look, lawyers, look! Are your Green Bags in order?
Oh! Sons of Galen, you will not escape the ken
Of the Blue Stockings who pass o'er the Border!

Look well to your counsels, ye sage Politicians,-
They'll change all your projects and plans for the State;
Examine your arguments, Metaphysicians,-

In every department the Blues are first-rate.
Famed Craniologists!
Learned Phrenologists!

You'll find, though each bump in their skulls is in order,
The organ of Prying,

All others defying,

Stands first in the Blues who are crossing the Border:
Strain ev'ry nerve, then, all ye who have place and sway,
From Wellington down to the City Recorder,
Ye'll be found bunglers, in office unfit to stay,
If the Blue Stockings come over the Border!

Stand to your posts, ye adepts in Astronomy,
A comet they'll see whilst your glass ye arrange,—
Find out some fault in Dame Nature's economy-
Spots in the moon, which betoken a change.
Quake, ye Geologists!
Tremble, Conchologists!

Put Retorts and Crucibles, Chemists, in order!
Beware, Antiquarians,

They're Disciplinarians,

These talented Blues who are passing the Border!
Put on your spectacles, star-gazing gentlemen-
Steam-boat inventors, avoid all disorder-
If there's a blunder committed by Englishmen,
Each Blue will see it who passes the Border!

'Tis said they've discover'd perpetual motion,

Attach'd to their tongues 'twill be henceforth their own; And, this job completed, some folks have a notion They're all seeking now the Philosopher's stone. An enemy slanders

Their ablest commanders,

Their heads vacuum engines he calls, ('tis a joke,)
Says Watt's Steamer teaches

The plan of their speeches,
Beginning in noise, and concluding in smoke.
Believe not, my countrymen, this foolish story-
Come when they will, let them find you in order-
Delay not, I pray, till each Blue, crown'd with glory,
By paper kites drawn, shall pass o'er the Border.

SIX SONNETS BY DELTA.

THE ANCIENT KIRK.

How like an image of repose it looks,
That ancient, holy, and sequester'd pile!
Silence abides in each tree-shaded aisle,
And on the grey spire caw the hermit rooks;
So absent is the stamp of modern days,
That, in the quaint carved oak, and oriel stain'd
With saintly legend, to Reflection's gaze
The Star of Eld seems not yet to have waned.-
At pensive eventide, when streams the West
On moss-green'd pediment, and tombstone grey,
And spectral Silence pointeth to Decay,
How preacheth Wisdom to the conscious breast,
Saying, "Each foot that roameth here shall rest;"
To God and Heaven, Death's is the only way.

TO THE MOON.

PURE silvery orb, that, through the deep blue sky
-While Silence rules this breeze-unshaken grove,
Mid whose embower'd recesses lone I rove-
Hold'st on thy way unclouded, to mine eye
An emblem of the deep serenity,

Which consecrates the sinless realms above:-
What varied scenes of hatred and of love,

Of discord and of peace, beneath thee lie!

Here eyes beam gladness, tongues are tuned to mirth;
There Disappointment pines with hollow cheek;
And Misery, with a voice no longer meek,

Curses the evil-omen'd hour of birth.

Alas! that most should fail in what all seek-
Happiness!-then blow on, wild winds of Earth!

RURAL SCENERY.

RECEDED hills afar of soften'd blue,

Tall bowering trees, through which the sunbeams shoot
Down to the waveless lake, birds never mute;
And wild-flowers all around of every hue.

Sure 'tis a lovely scene: There, knee-deep, stand,
Safe from the fierce sun, the o'ershadow'd kine,
And, to the left, where cultured fields expand,
Mid tufts of scented thorn, the sheep recline:-
Lone quiet farmsteads, haunts that ever please-
Oh, how inviting to the wanderer's eye
Ye rise on yonder uplands, mid your trees
Of shade and shelter! Every sound from these
Is eloquent of peace, of earth, and sky,
And pastoral beauty, and Arcadian case.

9

TO THE MUSE OF MILTON.

FAR from this visible diurnal sphere,
Immortal Spirit, it was thine to stray,

And, bending towards the sun thy proud career,
Dip thy white plumage in the font of Day;
Time, marvelling at thy course, beheld thee leave
His confines-overlook, with steadfast eye,
The ungirdled regions of Eternity-

And through the waste and wide Empyrean cleave-
Darting with sheer descent the caves amid

Of Night chaotic, downwards to the abyss

Of Death and Darkness, where the furies hiss,
And Hope from wretched souls is ever hid ;-

Heaven, Hell, and Earth thy theme,-a scene of bliss,
The last, ere Sin the Elysian charm undid.

FORGET thee?-then hath Beauty lost her charms
To captivate, and Tenderness grown cold,
As the perennial snows of mountains old;
And Hope forsook her throne, and Love his arms.
At morn thou art mine earliest thought, at night
Sweet dreams of thee across my soul are driven.
Almost thou comest between my heart and heaven,
With thy rich voice, and floating eyes of light.-
Forget thee? Hast thou then a doubt of me,
To whom thou art like sunshine to the spring?
Forget thee?-Never!! Let the April tree
Forget to bud-Autumn ripe fruits to bring-
The clouds to fertilize-the birds to sing-
But never while it beats, this bosom thee!

SUMMER MOON.

'Tis a bright Summer moon; along the shore
Float the white sea-mews rapturously; the grove,
Responsive to the small birds' song of love,

Is murmurous with sweet sound. But ah! no more
Come bright skies to me, as they came of yore,
When youth's Elysian cestus girdled all

The visible world, and every object bore

The trace of what Earth was before Man's fall.

Yet pleasant is the green-sward; bright the day;
And musical hoar Ocean, as he raves

With a majestic voice among his caves.
But Memory heedeth not; and far away

Turns to calm sunshine sleeping on the graves
Of Joys that perish'd in life's morning ray.

VOL. XXIII.

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