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shed their deep enchantment on mine eye,

      Though years have changed thee, I have gazed intent

      In silent joy, on tower and battlement,

      When all thy time-worn glories met my sight;

      Thou have I felt such rapture, such delight,

      That, had the splendour of thy days of yore

      Flashed on my view, I had not loved thee more!

      Scene of immortal deeds! thy walls have rung

      To pealing shouts from many a warrior's tongue;

      When first thy founder, Redwald of the spear,

      Manned thy high towers, defied his foemen near,

      When, girt with strength, East-Anglia's king of old,

      The sainted Edmund, sought thy sheltering hold,

      When the proud Dane, fierce Hinguar, in his ire

      Besieged the king, and wrapped thy walls in fire,

      While Edmund fled, but left thee with his name

      Linked, and for ever, to the chain of fame:

      Then wast thou great! and long, in after years

      Thy grandeur shone—thy portraiture appears

      From history's pencil like a summer-night,

      With much of shadow, but with more of light!

      Pile of departed days!—my verse records,

      Thy time of glory, thy illustrious Lords,

      The fearless Bigods—Brotherton—De Vere,

      And Kings, who held thee in their pride, or fear,

      And gallant Howards, 'neath whose ducal sway

      Proud rose thy towers, thy rugged heights were gay

      With glittering banners, costly trophies rent

      From men in war, or tilt, or tournament,

      With all the pomp and splendour that could grace

      The name, and honours of that warlike race.

      Howards! the rich! the noble! and the great!

      Most brave! most happy! most unfortunate!

      Kings were thy courtiers!—Queens have sued to share

      Thy wealth, thy triumphs—e'en thy name to bear!

      Tyrants have bowed thy children to the dust,

      Some for their worth—and some who broke their trust!

      And there was one among thy race, who died

      To Henry's shame!—his country's boast and pride:

      Immortal Surrey!—Offspring of the Muse!

      Bold as the lion, gentle as the dews

      That fall on flowers to 'wake their odorous breath,

      And shield their blossoms from the touch of death,

      Surrey!—thy fate was wept by countless eyes,

      A nation's woe assailed the pitying skies,

      When thy pure spirit left this scene of strife,

      And soared to him who breathed it into life:

      Thy funeral knell pealed o'er the world!—thy fall

      Was mourned by hearts that loved thee, mourned by all—

      All, save thy murderers!—thou hast won thy crown:

      And thou, fair Framlinghame! a bright renown,

      Yes! thy rich temple holds the stately tomb,

      Where sleeps the Poet in his lasting home,

      Lamented Surrey!—hero, bard divine,

      Pride, grace, and glory of brave Norfolk's line.

      Departed spirit!—Oh! I love to hold

      Communion sweet with lofty minds of old,

      To catch a spark of that celestial fire

      Which glows and kindles in thy rapturous lyre;

      Though varying themes demand my future lays,

      Yet thus my soul a willing homage pays

      To that bright glory which illumes thy name,

      Though naught can raise the splendour of thy fame!

      Mr. Bird is also advantageously known as the author of the Vale of Slaughden; Poetical Memoirs; Dunwich, a tale of the Splendid City; and other poems, which abound with vivid imagery, life-breathing incidents, and interesting narrative; though it is but late justice to recommend his Framlingham to the admirers of fervid verse.

      SPIRIT DRINKING

      "Nothing like the simple element dilutes

      The food, or gives the chyle so soon to flow."

      The direful practice of spirit-drinking seems to have arrived at its acme in the metropolis. Splendid mansions rear their dazzling heads at almost every turning; and it appears as if Circe had fixed her abode in these superb haunts. Happy are those who, like Ulysses of old, will not partake of her deadly cup. If the unhappy dram-drinker was merely to calculate the annual expense of two glasses of gin per day, he would find a sum expended which would procure for him many comforts, for the want of which he is continually grumbling. If this sum is expended for only two glasses of spirits, what must be the expense to the habitual and daily sot, who constantly haunts the tap-room or the wretched bar? to say nothing of the loss of time, health, and every comfort.

      Dr. Willan says—"On comparing my own observations with the bills of mortality, I am convinced that considerably more than one-eighth of all the deaths which take place in persons above twenty years old, happen prematurely, through excess in drinking spirits."

      Spirits, like other poisons, if taken in a sufficient quantity, prove immediately fatal. The newspapers frequently furnish us with examples of almost instant death, occasioned by wantonly swallowing a pint or other large quantity of spirits, for the sake of wager, or in boast.

      Dr. Trotter says—"We daily see, in all parts of the world, men who, by profligacy and hard-drinking, have brought themselves to a goal; yet, if we consult the register of the prison, it does not appear that any of these habitual drunkards die by being forced to lead sober lives." And he contends, that "whatever debility of the constitution exists, it is to be cured by the usual medicinal means which are employed to restore weakened organs. But the great difficulty in these attempts to cure inebriety is in satisfying the mind, and in whetting the blunted resolutions of the patient; and this is, doubtless, more easily accomplished by a gradual abstraction of his favourite potations."

      Dr. Lettsom mentions a person who usually drank twelve drams a day; but being convinced of his approaching misery, took the resolution to wean himself from this poison. He always drank out of one glass, into which he daily let fall a drop of sealing-wax. By this means he had twelve drops less of spirit every day, till at length, his glass being filled with wax, his habit was cured.

      "In the drunkard," says Dr. Willan, "the memory and the faculties depending on it, being impaired, there takes place an indifference towards usual occupations, and accustomed society or amusements. No interest is taken in the concerns of others—no love, no sympathy remain: even natural affection to nearest relatives is gradually extinguished, and the moral sense obliterated. The wretched victims of a fatal poison fall, at length, into a state of fatuity, and die with the powers both of body and mind wholly exhausted. Some, after repeated fits of derangement, expire in a sudden and violent phrenzy; some are hurried out the world by apoplexies; others perish by the slower process of jaundice, dropsy," &c.

      P.T.W.

      A SCENE ON WINDERMERE

      "Beautiful scene! how fitted to allure

      The printless footsteps of some sea-born maid."

      It

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