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!”