Is this the phantom of a poet's dream,
   That mocks him with a fleeting thrill of pleasure?
Or does the future with such glories teem,
   And even now give earnest of its treasure?

Heaven only knows!—Meanwhile, let's do our best
   To leave this heir-loom when in dust we moulder;
Man may enjoy unbroken peace and rest,
   'Ere this fair globe has grown a century older.

DREAMS.

WHEN we picture to ourselves a person
lying in a state of profound sleep—the body
slightly curved upon itself; the limbs
relaxed; the head reclining on its pillow; and
eyelids closed;—it is wonderful to think what
strange and startling imagery may be passing
through the brain of that apparently
unconscious being. The events of his whole life
may hurry past him in dim obscurity; he
may be revisited by the dead; he may be
transported into regions he never before
beheld; and his ideas, visibly assuming
phantasmal shapes, may hover round him
like shadows reflected from another and more
spiritual state of existence.

Let us draw the curtains gently aside, and
study the physiognomy of sleep.

The countenance may, occasionally, be
observed lighted up, as it were, from within by
a passing dream—its expression is frequently
one of peculiar mildness and benignity; the
breathing may be slow, but it is calm and
uniform; the pulse not so rapid as in the
waking state, but soft and regular; the
composure of the whole body may continue trance-
like and perfect. There is, indeed, no sign of
innocence more touching than the smile of
a sleeping infant. But, suddenly, this state
of tranquillity may be disturbed; the dreamer
changes his position and becomes restless; he
moans grievously—perhaps sobs—and tears
may be observed glimmering underneath his
eyelids; his whole body now seems to be
shaken by some inward convulsion; but,
presently, the strife abates; the storm-cloud
gradually passes; he stretches his limbs,
opens his eyes, and, as he awakes, daylight, in
an instant, dispels the vision, perhaps leaving
not behind the faintest trace or recollection of
a single incident which occurred in this
mysterious state.

But what are dreams? Whence come they?
What do they portend? Not man only, but
all animals, it is presumed, dream, more or
less, when they are asleep. Horses neigh,
and sometimes kick violently; cows, when
suckling their young calves, often utter
piteous lowings; dogs bark in suppressed
tones, and, from the motions of their paws,
appear to fancy themselves in the field of the
chase; even frogs, particularly during
summer, croak loudly and discordantly until
midnight, and then retire, and become silent.
Birds also dream; and will sometimes, when
frightened, fall from their roosting perch, or
flutter about their cage, in evident alarm.
A bullfinch, says Bechstein, belonging to a
lady, was subject to very frightful dreams,
which made it drop off its perch; but no
sooner did it hear the voice of its affectionate
mistress than it became immediately tranquil
and reascended its perch to sleep again. It
is pretty certain that parrots dream. It is,
indeed, a curious circumstance that the best
way of teaching this bird to talk is to cover
the cage over so as to darken it, and while he
is going to sleep pronounce, audibly and
slowly, the word he is to learn; if the winged
pupil be a clever one, he will, upon the repetition
of the lesson, in a morning or two, begin
to repeat it.

Upon the same principle, school-boys
commit their tasks to memory by reading
them over the last thing before they go to
bed. It is to be remembered that during
sleep the mind may not be wholly under
eclipse; for, although some of its faculties—
such as perception, comparison, judgment,
and especially the will, may be suspended—
others, (for example, Memory and Imagination),
are often more active than in the waking
state. But some persons, it is said, never
dream. We are assured by Locke that he
knew a gentleman who had an excellent
memory, yet could not recollect ever having
dreamed until his twenty-sixth year. Dr.
Reid, for many years before his death, had no
recollection of having ever dreamed. Dr. Elliotson
also relates, apparently upon good authority,
the case of a man who never dreamed
until after he had a fever, in his fortieth year;
and we ourselves know several persons who
are not conscious of ever dreaming.
Nevertheless, many contend that in all such cases
dreams really occur, but that they escape
the recollection; for they contend that it is
impossible that the mind cannot, being an
independent principle, ever be in a state of absolulte
rest. This is arguing within a very narrow
circle. We must not forget that the intimate
alliance of the mind with the body, subjects
it to its general laws; the "heat-oppressed
brain" requires rest to renew its energies, and
the mind, of which it is the organ, in the
meantime, may, as in profound sleep, remain
perfectly quiescent. The lids of the outward
senses are closed; a veil is drawn over the
immaterial principle of our nature; and mind
and body alike, for a period, lie in a state of
utter unconsciousness.

Here, however, it may fairly be asked, how
happens it that the same persons will at one
time remember, and, at another, forget his
dreams? This circumstance may, we
conceive, thus be explained:—

Those dreams which occur in very deep
sleep, and in the early part of the night, are
not so likely to be remembered as those
which happen towards morning, when the
sleep is less profound; hence the popular
notion that our morning dreams—which are
always best remembered—are likely to prove
true. Then, again, the imagery of some