A further account of Miss Ann Taylor and her family will be found in “The Family Pen,” by Isaac Taylor, which contains memorials, biographical and literary, of the Taylor family, of Ongar. The work was published in two volumes in 1867. The poem “My Mother,” has recently been translated into German by Carmen Sylva, Queen of Roumania. Before quoting any parodies of this poem it may be as well to insert the well-known lines “To Mary,” written by the poet Cowper ten years before the publication of Miss Taylor’s “My Mother.” The similarity of the two poems can scarcely have been accidental, and authors of parodies of the one, often approach near to an imitation of the other. TO MARY. (_Mrs. Unwin._) AUTUMN 1793. The twentieth year is well nigh past Since first our sky was overcast; Ah, would that this might be our last! My Mary! Thy spirits have a fainter flow, I see thee daily weaker grow; ’Twas my distress that brought thee low, My Mary! Thy needles, once a shining store, For my sake restless heretofore, Now rust disused, and shine no more, My Mary! For though thou gladly would’st fulfil The same kind office for me still, Thy sight now seconds not thy will, My Mary! But well thou play’dst the housewife’s part, And all thy threads, with magic art, Have wound themselves about this heart, My Mary! Thy indistinct expressions seem Like language uttered in a dream; Yet me they charm, whate’er the theme, My Mary! Thy silver locks, once auburn bright, Are still more lovely in my sight Than golden beams of orient light, My Mary! For, could I view nor them, nor thee, What sight worth seeing could I see? The sun would rise in vain for me, My Mary! Partakers of thy sad decline, Thy hands their little force resign; Yet gently pressed, press gently mine, My Mary! Such feebleness of limbs thou prov’st, That now at every step thou mov’st Upheld by two; yet still thou lov’st, My Mary! And still to love, though pressed with ill, In wintry age to feel no chill, With me is to be lovely still, My Mary! But ah! by constant heed I know, How oft the sadness that I show, Transforms thy smiles to looks of woe, My Mary! And should my future lot be cast With much resemblance of the past, Thy worn-out heart will break at last, My Mary! WILLIAM COWPER. ――――:o:―――― THE VICTIM OF CIRCUMSTANCES. BY AN OUTCAST.