MY MOTHER.

WHO, with her arms of love, carest,
And laid me, youngling, on her breast,
And hushed me there to downy rest?

My mother.

Who o'er my infant ailings wept,

And by my bed long vigils kept,

And kissed and blest me while I slept?

My mother.

Who, in each frolic-sport, and toy,
With glistening eye, indulged my joy,
And shared the transports of her boy?

My mother.

Who, patient of a wayward child,
Forgave my headstrong passions wild,
And soon the frown forgot, and smiled?

My mother.

Who, guardian, champion, counsel, friend,
To schoolday-cares her aid would lend,
My tears would dry, my cause defend?

Who to brave truth and honour bred
My heart, and in their high-road led,
And bade me there for ever tread?

My mother.

My mother.

Who nursed in me the proud disdain
Of all that scoundrels feel, or feign,
And all that scoundrels boast, or gain?

Who, by her fair example, taught
Each holy aim, and generous thought,

My mother.

And virtues never to be bought?

My mother.

Just such a form, with wings of gold,
And wreaths of roses, I shall see
Wait my last moments, and unfold
The gate of Paradise to me!

Heaven speaks in signs. The watery bow,
To banish fear from earth was given;

And thou, Maria, to foreshow

The beauty that inhabits heaven!

B.

STANZAS

ON THE NEW HIPPODROME IN COVENT GARDEN.

Mutandus locus est, et deversoria nota

Præteragendus Equus.

HORACE, 15th Epist, B. I.

WHO will say, that the laws are no longer in force,
Recorded in Metamorphosean fable;

Since our Manager's raised to a Master of Horse,
And our Theatre sunk to a livery-stable?

When beggar'd, they hit on this plan, we are told,
To jockey the town, and in clover to revel;
But now they are mounted, like beggars of old,
Or Blue Beard himself they will ride to the devil.
O Kemble, the Centaur, sage Houhnyihn elf!

Henceforth who will care for thy classic revivals? Rowe, Congreve, and Otway, may sleep on the shelf, Their brains are kick'd out by their quadruped rivals.

Though Shakspeare may frown in your hall in disdain, You may laugh (if you can) without qualms or re

morses;

He swore all the world was a stage, and 'tis plain
No stage in the world can go on without horses.
Where'er with four legs native talent is bless'd,
The Manager's patronage doubly is due;
It goes twice as far, and has twice as much zest,
As where the dull rascals have only got two.

Away with the pit! turn it into a ring,

Thalia, Melpomene, joining the hoax, Shall gallop in grand tragi-comedy swing,

While Kemble is cracking his whip and his jokes.

Don't cough and take snuff, Sir, and drag out each word,
Like bottles lugg'd up from some hollow old bin;
Sing, tumble, cut capers, be seen, felt, and heard,
And tip us Grimaldi's auricular grin.

In wisely attempting our stages to make

Of riding, not morals, the properest schools, Mr. Merryman's part it is fit you should take, The last of our actors-the first of our fools.

On hearing it observed that the Chancellor of the Exchequer had proved himself a bad Arithmetician.

FOR addition, PITT's talents let all men revere,
Since he adds to our debt thirty millions a year;
In subtraction his skill to suspect will be rash,
Which contrives from the Bank to subtract all the cash;
And tho' feeble his efforts to multiply men,

He can multiply taxes again and again;

In division what mortal will say he wants nous ?
Who so artfully works in dividing the house.

Then ye patriots be still! to your murmurs a truce!
What we were, what we are, think! and spare your

abuse,

For you all must agree that Will Pitt can reduce.

AN ELEGY.

WHY didst thou, Cynthio, tempt my wand'ring feet
To visit Sherbourn's ever-blissful grove?

Why didst thou call me to thy calm retreat,
The blest abode of Innocence and Love?

With anxious haste I bade the town adieu!

And fondly deem'd with conscious Peace to dwell!
I bade the sons of wealth their schemes pursue,
And sought, with cager steps, thy rural cell.

I found thee happiest of the village swains,
For she was thine whom most thou didst adore!
Elvira pride of all the neighbouring plains,
For beauty fam'd-for ev'ry virtue more.
Far from the tumult of the madd'ning throng,
In careless ease I pass'd the tranquil day;
My pipe I tun'd, and rais'd the vocal song,
And every sylvan scene inspir'd the lay,
Ceres I sung, whose kind prolific hand,

Profuse of blessings, decks the varied scene;
Bids Autumn's ripen'd stores enrich the land,
And jocund Plenty crown the cheerful green.

Beauty was next my theme, and Love sincere ;
All potent Love! whose influence reigns confest;
With whom comes smiling Hope, and anxious Fear,
Alternate rulers of the human breast.