Refreshing are his dreams!

No tantalizing scenes of wealth

Mock him, possess'd of ease and health,
He fears not murderers, storms, nor fire,
The rich man's nightly themes;

But innocence and peace inspire
His light and pleasant dreams.

And when the cheerful morn
The watchful cock proclaims aloud,
Light fly his slumbers, as a cloud,
Reflected by the noon-day sun,
On wings of light is borne;

No head-ache veils, in mantle dun,
The peasant's happy morn.

Goddess of sweet repose!

When toil invites my limbs to rest,

With thy warm pinions shield my breast;

Breathe through my lips thy kindest dreams,

My willing eyelids close,

And as the peasant's slumber seems,
Be such my sound repose.

An Address to England, on her Nelson's Death. WRITTEN BY W. T. FITZGERALD, ESQ.

While England beams one universal blaze,
The faithful tribute of a nation's praise;
For naval deeds achiev'd, of high renown,
And honours added to the British crown,

Is there a Briton's breast that does not beat

At Nelson's triumph, and the foes' defeat?

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However poor, he shares the gen'rous flame, And glows, exulting at the hero's name. Immortal Nelson! here my throbbing heart, Swelling with sorrow, acts no borrow'd part. May I not say, and say it with a tear,

That, with his death, the triumph's bought too dear? But who can murmur? Glorious was his doom;

The heart of every Briton is his tomb!

The nation's fav'rite, and his sov'reign's pride,
He rul'd, despotic Lord of Ocean's tide!
Each coast remember'd for some deed of fame,
Was made illustrious by great Nelson's name;
Denmark, Iberia, Egypt's trophied shore,
Heard the dread thunder of his cannon's roar !
While laurels, won from every hostile fleet,
He laid in triumph, at his monarch's feet;
And hist❜ry ever shall record the lay,
Bright with his glory, in Trafalgar's Bay.

In torrid climes, where nature pants for breath, Or tainted gales bring pestilence and death; Where hurricanes are born, and whirlwinds sweep The raging billows of the Atlantic deep,

Nelson had sought, but long had sought in vain, The still retreating fleets of France and Spain; When found, at last, he crush'd them on the flood, And seal'd the awful conquest with his blood!

Yet, as he liv'd, so did the hero fall
Crouch'd at his feet, he saw the humble Gaul;
Saw hostile navies into ruins hurl'd,

And England's trident rule the wat❜ry world!
Then did he, laurel-crown'd, and wrapp'd in fire,
Upborne on victry's outspread wings, expire.

Suspended be the shouts that rend the skies-
England's triumphant! but her Nelson dies.
A grateful nation mourns her hero dead;
And dews, with tears, the laurels on his head.
Laurels, for ever green! for ever new!
Bequeath'd, with Nelson's dying breath, to you!
But in the midst of his resistless fire,

His conquering fleet beheld their chief expire!
Though England's ships in awful triumph ride,
With shatter'd navies captive by their side,
The tidings fame with muffled trumpet brings,
And victory mourns his loss, in sable wings.
Britons, she cries, though now my bosom bleeds,
Your naval sons, shall emulate his deeds.
Thus shall his spirit, rising from his grave,
Make future Nelsons triumph on the wave!

Sonnet, on the Approach of Winter.

The red-breast perch'd upon the with'ring spray,
To parting autumn chaunts a sweet farewell;
While low'ring skies a dismal change foretell:
The harbingers of woe are on their way,
And dying beauty's dirge, along the dell,
The moaning winds of solemn ev'ning swell.

Marking the silent progress of decay,

The prescient swallow flits, on timely wing, To climes where, cherish'd by the southern ray, Nature prolongs the pleasant reign of spring; Yet still the season can enjoyment bring To fancy's favour'd Son; and winter's glooms, As well as summer's brilliancy and blooms, Furnish new subjects for the bard to sing.

Anecdote of Dr. Johnson.-The conversations, as well as writings, of this great man, clearly evinced, that he paid considerable attention to dreams, at least to his own dreams. Calling one morning on a lady of his acquaintance, she informed him she had dreamt the preceding night, that she had met fortune in her way, whirling rapidly on her wheel, and who presented her with a purse. Upon my word, madam," cried the doctor, " you were very fortunate that the wheel of the blind dame did not run over you: but are you sure that she gave you a purse ?" “O, Sir, I am very sure of that."

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Then, madam," continued Dr. Johnson, "if you have not been able to make a fortune while awake, see what you can do in your sleep; and should you dream again of meeting fortune on her wheel, try your luck in the next lottery." Whether the lady pursued the advice is not known; but there is strong ground for belief, from the circumstances above stated, that had the doctor himself dreamed of such a lottery, as is at present the theme of general admiration, he would have purchased a ticket or two, with a sanguine hope of gaining one of its numerous great prizes.

Dr. Blachly gives the following recipe as highly efficacious to the cure of dropsy, by external application.-Recipe: Saponis, Aceti, et Spt. Vini ana partes æquales. The whole body is to be rubbed with it at bed-time, as long as the patient

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can bear the application, occasionally giving him brandy or wine. This remedy, joined to the other remedies of dropsies, cures, generally, in two or three applications; the water disappearing by perspiration. Edematous legs bound up, with the mixture plentifully rubbed on them, are quickly reduced in size.

Lines on the sudden and much-lamented Death of the Right Hon. Sir John Parnell, Bart. late Chancellor of the Irish Exchequer.

Parnell is dead! that heart, to friendship dear,
No longer shines, on those within his sphere.
Though sudden was the stroke, shall we complain
That Heav'n, in pity, sav'd him hours of pain!
Parnell is dead! nor leaves behind, on earth
A name more rich in social, patriot worth ;
Nor place, nor title, sway'd his noble mind,
Great as he fill'd them; greater he resign'd.
An Empire's just regret his hearse attends,
Dear to his country, honour'd by his friends;
And long shall filial tears, and friendship's sighs,
Point to the sacred spot, where Parnell lies.

THE ARTS, &c.

SCIENCE OF CHEMISTRY.

Extract from the Moniteur of the 18th of January.

Upon the efficacy of fumigations with the mineral acids for purifying the air and stopping the progress of contagion, Dr. Majon, Professor of