MY MOTHER. WHO, with her arms of love, carest, 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, My mother. Who, patient of a wayward child, My mother. Who, guardian, champion, counsel, friend, Who to brave truth and honour bred My mother. My mother. Who nursed in me the proud disdain Who, by her fair example, taught My mother. And virtues never to be bought? My mother. Just such a form, with wings of gold, Heaven speaks in signs. The watery bow, 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 HORACE, 15th Epist, B. I. WHO will say, that the laws are no longer in force, Since our Manager's raised to a Master of Horse, When beggar'd, they hit on this plan, we are told, Henceforth who will care for thy classic revivals?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 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, 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, He can multiply taxes again and again; In division what mortal will say he wants nous ? Then ye patriots be still! to your murmurs a truce! abuse, For you all must agree that Will Pitt can reduce. AN ELEGY. WHY didst thou, Cynthio, tempt my wand'ring feet Why didst thou call me to thy calm retreat, With anxious haste I bade the town adieu! And fondly deem'd with conscious Peace to dwell! I found thee happiest of the village swains, Profuse of blessings, decks the varied scene; Beauty was next my theme, and Love sincere ; |