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Incubus, or Night-Mare-Artificial Windpipe.

[592

The celebrated Caledonian bard bas tary employments, and particularly intense study, with late hours, are highly prejudicial.

also drawn a picture of this fiend→

In broken dreams the image rose,
Of varied perils, pains, and woes;
His steed now flounders in the brake,
Now sinks his barge upon the lake,
Now leader of a broken høst,
His standards fall---his honour's lost.

Then---from my couch may heav'nly might
Chase that worst phantom of the night!
Lady of the Lake

ARTIFICIAL WINDPIPE.

MUSCULAR STRENGTH.

A gentleman was nearly suffocated by Inflammation of the upper part of the windpipe [cynanche laryngea] and the operation of bronchotomy, or division of the tube, was performed close down to the breast-bone. A silver tube was introduced through the wound, and he Incubus will sometimes occur in the immediately breathed with freedom.healthiest persons, when any indigestible Such, however, was the magnitude of food happens to lie in the stomach, or the original obstruction in the windpipe, bowels, during sleep. But a peculiar that he has now breathed three months habit of body is necessary to render a through the silver pipe, and there is, as person subject to it. Thus chesnuts are yet, no appearance of the natural pasvery apt to give origin to a paroxysm, as sage becoming free. The tube gives him He eats, drinks, was long ago remarked by Hildesheim, very little uneasiness, who says" qui scire cupit quid sit In- and sleeps as well as in perfect health, cubus? Is ante somnum comedut casta- but voice and speech are gone. neas, et superbibat vinum fæculentum !" The causes of incubus Mr. Waller Smollet, in his Travels in Italy, reably traces to derangements in the sto- marks, that a porter in London quenches mach and bowels, and particularly to an his thirst with a draught of strong beer; acid there. After various trials on him- a porter of Rome or Naples refreshes self and others, he found the best prehimself with a slice of water-melon, or a ventive of this midnight intruder was glass of iced water. The one costs three carbonate of soda dissolved in a little ale half-pence, the last a farthing—which of or porter, and taken going to bed. The them is most effectual? I am sure the following is Mr. Waller's favourite re- men are equally pleased. cipe; and we can vouch for its utility monly remarked that beer strengthens from personal experience and its effects as well as refreshes; but the porters of on others. It is a draught to be taken Constantinople, who never drink any going to bed; and is not to supersede thing stronger than water, and eat very the carbonate of soda taken in common little animal food, will carry a load of drink: a drachm of the soda may be 700 weight, which is more than any used in the 24 hours; it renders ale just English porter ever attempted to raise. beginning to turn, acid, very pleasant. Night draught:-ten grains of salt of tartar, or carbonate of ammonia, whichever may best agree with the stomach; compound tincture of cardamous, three drachms: syrup, one drachm; mint, or cinnamon water, two ounces: mix, and

take at bed-time.

a

It is com

To the Editor of the European Magazine. solution of the following query, “as all SIR--Your correspondent J.L. requests substantives in grammar, are said to have existence, how can nothing be a substantive ?" To which profound question, I hope the following reply will not be deemed too formal and laconic, if à The bowels should be kept open by plain and satisfactory solution should be small doses of neutral salts, magnesia, or proved to have existence therein. I rhubarb. Intemperance of every kind is to be avoided, particularly bad wine. Of shall frame my answer, by proving that nothing is something, and consequently, eatables, fat and greasy meats, most ve- that nothing in graminar has a legitimate getables, fruit and pastry are to be avoid- claim to the appellation of substantive. ed, or used sparingly. The same may What is a wordbe said of salted meat, which is very improper for people of weak digestion. Moderate exercise is salutary: seden

A word is something,
Nothing is a word,

Therefore nothing is something.

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Poetry.

POETRY.

[594

From the New Monthly Magazine.

TO THE PRIMROSE.

By JOHN MAYNE.

BY murmring Nith, my native stream,

I've hail'd thee with the morning's beam,
Woo'd thee among the falls of Clyde,
On Leven's banks, on Kelvin side;
And now, on Hanwell's flow'ry plain,
I welcome thy return again!

At Hanwell where romantic views,
And sylvan scenes, invite the Muse;
And where, lest erring man should stray.
Truth's blameless teacher leads the way.

Lorn tenant of the peaceful glade,
Emblem of Virtue in the shade,
Rearing thy head to brave the storm,
That would thine innocence deform.
Of all the flow'rs that greet the Spring,
Of all the flow'rs the seasons bring,
To me, while doom'd to linger here,
The lowly Primrose shall be dear.

Sprung like a Primrose in the wild,
Short, like the Primrose, Marion smil'd---
The Spring, that gave her blossoms birth,
Tore them for ever from the earth!
Nor left, ah! me, one bud behind
To tranquillize a parent's mind,
Save that sweet bud that strews the way,
Blest Hope, to an eternal May.

Lorn tenant of the peaceful glade,
Emblem of Virtue in the shade!
Pure as the blossoms on yon thorn---
Spotless as her for whom we mourn!
Of all the flow'rs that greet the Spring,
Of all the flow'rs the seasons bring,
To me, while doom'd to linger here,
The lowly Primrose shall be dear,

Falshood to an elvish minion,
Did the form of Love impart;
Cunning plumed its vampire pinion,
Avarice tipped its golden dart.
Love, the hideous phantom flying,
Hither came no more to rove;
There his broken bow is lying
On that stone---the tomb of Love!

THE FLOWER OF LOVE.

FROM THE SAME.

IS said the rose is Love's own flower,

'Tis blush so bright, its thorns so many;

And Winter on its bloom has power,

But has not on its sweetness any. For though young Love's etherial rose Will droop on Age's wintry bosom, Yet still his faded leaves disclose

The fragrance of their earliest blossom.

But, ah! the fragrance lingering there
Is like the sweets that mournful duty
Bestows, with sadly-soothing care,

To deck the grave of Bloom and Beauty.
For when its leaves are shrunk and dry,
Its blush extinct, to kindle never,
That fragrance is but Memory's sigh,
That breathes of pleasures past for ever.

Why did not Love the amaranth chuse,
That bears no thorns, and cannot perish !
Alas! no sweets its flowers diffuse,

And only sweets Love's life can cherish.
But be the rose and amaranth twin'd,
And Love, their mingled powers assuming,
Shall round his brows a chaplet bind,

For ever sweet, for ever blooming.

From La Belle Assemblee.

THE TOMB OF LOVE.

To the Editor the European Magazine.

SIR,

EREWITH send an

FROM THE NEW NOVEL OF “MELINCOURT." HERE, by Lord Byron, taken from the

BY

Y the mossy weed flowered column,
Where the setting moon beams glance,

Streams a radiance cold and solemn

On the haunts of old romance:
Know'st thou what those shafts betoken,
Scattered on that tablet lone,
Where the ivory bow lies broken
By the monumental stone?

When true knighthood's shield neglected,
Mouldered in the empty hall;
When the charms that shield protected
Slept in death's eternal thrall :
When chivalric glory perished,
Like the pageant of a dream,
Love in vain its memory cherished,

Fired in vain the minstrel's theme.

silver mounting of a Goblet made out of at Human Scull, found at Newstead,

J. T.

START not! nor dream my spirit fled,
In me behold the only scull
From which (unlike a living head)
Whatever flows is never dull.

I lived---I lived---I quaff'd like thee:
I died--let earth my bones resign;

Fill up thou canst not injure me,
The worm hath fouler lips than thine.

Better to hold the sparkling grape,

Than nurse the earth-worm's slimy breed;

And circle in the goblet's shape,

The drink of gods, than reptiles feed

695]

Where'er my wit perehance hath shone
In aid of others, let me shine;
And when, alas! our brains are gone,
What nobler substitute than wine?

Quaff whilst thou caust; another race
(When thou and thine like me are sped)
May rescue thee from death's embrace,
And rhyme and revel with the dead.

Why not? since through life's little day,
Our heads should sad effect produce;
Redeem'd, from worms and wasting clay,
This chance is thine to be of use."

NOTE.

Poetry.

On digging near the Abbey for the purpose of making a cold bath, several human sculls were found: two or three of them in a very perfect state: one of these, his lordship formed the horrid idea of having fitted up as a goblet, which was filled with ale, and handed about to his guests after their choice!

From the Gentleman's Magazine.
FAREWELL ADDRESS.

Spoken by Mr. JOHN KEMBLE, at the Edinburgh Theatre, on Saturday, April 3.

As

Written by WALTER SCOTT, Esq.

S the worn war-horse, at the trumpet's sound, Erects his mane, and neighs, and paws the ground,

Disdains the ease his generous lord assigns,
And longs to rush on the embattled lines;
So I, your plaudits ringing on mine ear,
Can scarce sustain to think our parting near;
To think my scenic hour for ever past,
And that those valued plaudits are my last!
But years steal on---and higher duties crave
Some space between the theatre and the grave;
That, like the Roman, in the Capitol,
I may adjust my mantle e'er I fall:
My life's brief act in public service flown,
The last the closing scene, must be my own!
Here then adieu ! while yet some well-gra-
ced parts

May fix an ancient favourite in your hearts,
Not quite to be forgotten, even when
You look on better actors, younger men!
And if your bosoms own this kindly debt
Of old remembrance, how shall mine forget---
O, how forget!---how oft I hither came,
In anxious hope, how oft return'd with fame!
How oft around your circle this weak hand
Has waved immortal SHAKSPEARE's magic
wand,

Till the full burst of inspiration came,

And I have felt, and you have fann'd the

flame!

By mem'ry treasur'd, while her reign endures, These hours must live---and all their charms

are your's!

O favour'd Land! renown'd for arts and arms,

For manly talent and for female charms, Could this full bosom prompt the sinking line, What fervent benedictions now were thine! But my last part is play'd, my knell is rung, When e'en your praise falls faultering from my tongue;

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And all that you can hear, or I can tell,
Is--Friends and Patrons, hail, and--FARE
YOU WELL!

From the New Monthly Magazine.

THE SONG OF A Lover under thE WINDOW OF HIS MISTRESS.

Now rests upon the mountain, Her brightness sleeps upon the stream, And trembles in the fountain; You'd think 't was noon,---so fair--so bright, Her silver light is given,

come beam

Oh come !---with thee on such a night,
I well might dream of Heaven!"

The groves are hush'd,the woods are still,
And not a breeze is waking,
And save the fount, and mountain rill,
There's nought the stillness breaking;
Then sweetly may we rove awhile,
Ere eastern sky adorning,

Bright Phoebus wakes with golden smile,
And bursts upon the morning.

'Tis dear, Amanda, at this hour,

When all the world is sleeping.
To press the dewy mountain flower,
Beneath fair Cynthia weeping:
And dear, by her pale light to view,
Those eyes of starry brightness,
That beam by night, like drops of dew,
Surpris'd by morning lightness.

Then come, my love,while none are near,
We'll taste the joy of roving;
All is so still and peaceful here

This bour was made for loving;
And sure, a purer heart than thine

Ne'er glow'd at lover's greeting;
Thou know'st away how faithful mine,
How blest,--how warm at meeting.
Haste, Amanda !---softly stealing,

From thy peaceful couch arise;
'Tis for thee, this hour 's revealing,
Brighter stars---serener skics;
Amanda haste !---it is for thee,

Fair Cynthia still is beaming,
And I, thy lover, wait for thee,
Then cease, my love, thy dreaming.

From the Panorama. JONAH'S GOURD.

"F.L

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Heard every prayer, and mark'd each rising
sigh,

And bade His angel pass innocuous by?
That He, who wields the fierceness of the main,
And showers His vengeance on the offending
plain,

When Ninus trembled at His servant's word,
Paused in his wrath, and stayed his lifted
sword?

Ah! check, weak Seer, that evil heart of pride,
Nor rashly wield the bolt to man denied';
Renounce the vain, the impious wish to rise
Beyond thy strength :---be humble, and be

wise.

Thine is a gracious God, whose pitying eye
Beams not with joy, whene'er the wicked die;
His voice benign will hail the wand'ring child,
By treacherous Sin, and Pleasure's lure be-
gail'd,

To weeping Penitence a pardon give,

Calm every fear, and bid the suppliant live.
Not His the shortened arm, nor heavy ear,
That cannot rescue and that will not hear;
He lists alike, as Sovereign Lord of all,
The prayer of princes, and the captive's call.
No tear of Penitence unheeded flows;
Unmark'd no pang that silent Sorrow knows;
Nor, when Affliction breathes her feeble moan,
Unheard ascends the sigh before His Throne.

Grateful to thee the gourd's refreshing shade While Summer's beam in burning radiance play'd;

But when the worm, with venom'd tooth un

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The heaven thy curtain, and the earth thy bed;
How didst thou weep the transient comfort
flown

Sprung of the night---ere day departed, gone!
Yet, shall not God repentant Ninus spare,
Mark all her grief, His threatened wrath for-
bear?

Shall not her tears impending vengeance stay,
And wash the record of her guilt away?
What though the Almighty mark'd the traitor

train

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Who shall reprove with noisy babblings vain
The righteous judgments of thy boundless
reign ?
Hence, child of Pride, with specious reason
blind,

Nor scan the purpose of the Eternal mind;
Blame not the arm that spares the prostrate
foe,

Nor deal Heaven's vengeance round,and chide the tardy blow.

God of all Love! where'er Eve's silver star Rears her pale crest, and guides her wandering car,--

Where'er the day-spring visits from on high
The heart insensible, the darken'd eye,
Thine be the incense of each grateful shrine,
And all the praise of love unequalled--Thine.
Low at Thy Throne, let earth's frail children
bend

And hail Thee, Lord, their Father and their
Friend.

And chief may we, illum'd by Mercy's rays,
From thousand temples swell the hymn of
praise;

Teach us to tread, forgiving and forgiven,
Havened at last, where loveliest prospects rise,
The path of life, and wait the joys of heaven;
Our home of promised rest, our Eden in the

skies.

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thro' the gate--

"A poor little flow'r-girl your orders to wait:
My basket I fill'd in the gardens of Spring,
And hyacinths, jonquils, and violets bring."
"I chuse a Narcissus," said Folly, and smil'd,
"Or this scarlet tulip, so vagrant and wild."
"First shew me your basket,” said Pride," if
you please---

"Let's see if at last I can purchase heart's
ease!"

Of hideous Sin troop wildly o'er the plain,
And by thy voice the awful menace spread
Of treasured wrath to scourge each guilty head,
To lay the stubborn pride of Ninus low,
And whelm the scoffer in her overthrow,---
If thou, fond man, in fancied power array'd,
Couldst weep the ruin of thy favourite shade,
Tho' the frail root ne'er own'd thy culturing
hand,
[land ;---
Plucking the wild weeds from the encumber'd Said Whim---" Pretty nymph, from your gar
Say---shall not God forbid his wrath to burn,

land I take

When from their guilty trance His children This pink and wild rose for my cousin Wit's

turn?

Grateful to Him ascends the contrite prayer;
And shall not He the mighty city spare?

Shall He to Death her infant offspring doom,
Her flocks and herds in one vast wreck con-

sume,

Whose care the hungry lion's want supplies,
Nor, unrelenting, notes the raven's cries?
Lord of all power and might! whose plastic

hand

Built worlds on worlds, and all creation spann'd;

Prompt at whose word the winged whirlwinds fly,

And the red bolt fulfils its destiny:

sake;

And now, Brother Hermits, what next shall
These sprigs of fresh laurel he cannot refuse :

we chuse ?"

The flow'r-bearer whisper'd---“ This fragrant
bouquet

Young Beauty has bought on her toilet to set---
But here is the myrtle, whose ever green leaf,
Distill'd by her hand, is a balsam for grief.

"I found it half-starv'd in an Anchoret's cell.
Where the dew-drops of Charity froze ere they
fell;

*See Ath. Vol. I. pp. 111, 433, 513,

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us

Frons the New Monthly Magazies.

THE ORPHAN.

[600

Verses spoken by one of the Boys of the LONDON ORPHAN ASYLUM, on the departure of a Vidtor.

STAYd hear an Orphan's tale :

gentle stranger, stay awhile,

An Orphan's piteous tale might make
The ruddiest cheek turu pale.
Ah! once I did not need your ear

To listen to my woe:
No cause had I to make complaint,
No sorrow did I know:

To cheapen bouquets with a profligate puss---But as the lark that mounts the sky
Go! turn out this thief in a gipsy's attire!
I'll take her starv'd myrtle to light up our fire.”

Love, laughing, exclaim'd, "Ye are all April
fools!

That myrtle, my sceptre, the universe rules:
The flame it has kindled, for ever shall burn,
But Love, once rejected, disdains to return"

The Hermits next day called a council of state,
On Cupid's sly visit incog, to debate---
Said Pride, their grave chairman---“ A visit
so strange

Our whole commonwealth, and its basis will change.

"My statutes are libell'd---Spleen raves, and looks queer;

Shame hardly remembers how poor he came

here;

And Anger, lock'd up in his closet above, Stays seeking the olive-branch left here by Love.

While Folly sits learning old sonnets to trim, Mirth enters incog. to electrify Wham; He stifles us all with his patent gas-lamp, And Grief when Love call'd here thought fit to decamp.

“We soon on a worthy successor must fix, Unless we reduce our small synod to six; Since Grief follows Love, and is plotting to wrong us,

Let good Common Sense supersede him among us."

Thus duly propos'd, and elected nem. con. Good Sense the attire of a Hermit put on :--Love saw the new member, and said with a sigh,

"This stranger will govern them

than I!"

longer

For Spleen chas'd by Mirth must depart in disgrace,

While Folly to Prudence surrenders his place; Shame, Anger, and Pride, to old Coventry sent,

Will make room for Honesty, Peace, and Content.

"Gay Whim, of his chemical vapours bereft, Some sweets may distil from the roses I left; But Love can the hermitage enter no more, While good Common Sense keeps his seat at the door!"

And sings from morn till night, So did my little heart rebound

With undisturbed delight.

Oft did I with my father play,
And prattle on his knee;
And, at those times, I used to think
No child was glad like me.

But, ere I well could speak his name,
He died on foreign shore ;
And then, I often sigh'd, and thought
I should be glad no more.
My mother--Oh! 't is long ago
Since I could call her so-----

I have no mother !---no ! she's fled
From this sad world of woe!

My father's death quite broke her heart
And withered all her joy;
She'd look at me---and weep-and say—
"Poor little orphan boy !"

"What, mother, is an orphan boy ?”
I sometimes did reply;
And then she'd sob, and weep so much,
I feared lest she should die.

Full many a month she mourned away,
By every sorrow tried,

Till quite worn out, she gently groaned, And said, “Poor boy !"--and died.

Ah! how I wept upon her face

And called her name in vain,
My childish heart could scarce believe
She would not speak again!

And, now, I think of that sad day,
My grief is running o'er ;

I seem to see my mother die,

And weep her death once more.--*

Perhaps you bear a parent's name,
And call your child your joy;
Oh, never may that child become
A wretched orphan boy!
Perhaps the woes that fill my breast,
You had a father---mother---who
Are partly felt by thine;

Are dead, as well as mine!
Then join with me to bless the hands
That gave me refuge here;
That made this aching heart rejoice,
And wiped away each tear."

CALAMUS

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