MR M. COLLINS.

Yes! here, once more, a traveller,

I find the Angel Inn,

Where landlord, maids, and serving-men,

Receive me with a grin:

They surely can’ t remember me,

My hair is grey and scanter;

I’ m chang’ d, so chang’ d since I was here —

“O tempora mutantur!”

The Angel’ s not much alter’ d since

That sunny month of June,

Which brought me here with Pamela

To spend our honey-moon!

I recollect it down to e’ en

The shape of this decanter.

We’ ve since been both much put about —

“O tempora mutantur!”

Aye, there’ s the clock, and looking-glass

Reflecting me again;

She vow’ d her Love was very fair —

I see I’ m very plain.

And there’ s that daub of Prince Leboo,

’ Twas Pamela’ s fond banter

To fancy it resembled me —

“O tempora mutantur!”

The curtains have been dyed; but there,

Unbroken, is the same,

The very same cracked pane of glass

On which I scratch’ d her name.

Yes! there’ s her tiny flourish still,

It used to so enchant her

To link two happy names in one —

“O tempora mutantur!”

What brought this wand’ rer here, and why

Was Pamela away?

It may be she had found her grave,

Or he had found her gay.

The fairest fade; the best of men

May meet with a supplanter;—

How natural, how trite the cry,

“O tempora mutantur!”