Who ne'er before at sermon showed his face, See Jemmy Twitcher shambles; stop! stop thief! He's stolen the Earl of Denbigh's handkerchief, Let Barrington arrest him in mock fury, And Mansfield hang the knave without a jury. But hark, the voice of battle shouts from far, The Jews and Maccaronis are at war: The Jews prevail, and, thundering from the stocks, They seize, they bind, they circumcise Charles Fox. Fair Schwellenbergen smiles the sport to see, And all the maids of honour cry 'Te! He!' Be these the rural pastimes that attend Great Brunswick's leisure: these shall best unbend His royal mind, whene'er from state withdrawn, He treads the velvet of his Richmond lawn; These shall prolong his Asiatic dream, Though Europe's balance trembles on its beam. And thou, Sir William! while thy plastic hand Creates each wonder which thy bard has planned, While, as thy art commands, obsequious rise Whate'er can please, or frighten, or surprise, Oh, let that bard his knight's protection claim, And share, like faithful Sancho, Quixote's fame. JOHN LOWE. The author of 'Mary's Dream' was born in 1750, at Kenmore, Galloway, and was the son of a gardener. He became a student of divinity, and acted as tutor in the family of a Mr McGhie of Airds. A daughter of Mr McGhie was attached to a gentleman named Miller, a surgeon at sea, and on the occasion of his death Lowe wrote his beautiful 'Mary's Dream,' the exquisite simplicity and music of the first stanza of which has often been admired. Lowe was betrothed to a sister of 'Mary,' but having emigrated to America, he married another, fell into dissipated habits, and died in a miserable plight at Fredericksburgh in 1798. He wrote many other pieces, but none equal to 'Mary's Dream.' MARY'S DREAM. 1 The moon had climbed the highest hill Which rises o'er the source of Dee, And from the eastern summit shed Her silver light on tower and tree; When Mary laid her down to sleep, Her thoughts on Sandy far at sea, When, soft and low, a voice was heard, Saying, 'Mary, weep no more for me!' 2 She from her pillow gently raised Her head, to ask who there might be, And saw young Sandy shivering stand, With visage pale, and hollow ee. 'O Mary dear, cold is my clay; It lies beneath a stormy sea. Far, far from thee I sleep in death; So, Mary, weep no more for me! 3 'Three stormy nights and stormy days We tossed upon the raging main; And long we strove our bark to save, But all our striving was in vain. Even then, when horror chilled my blood, My heart was filled with love for thee: The storm is past, and I at rest; So, Mary, weep no more for me! 4 'O maiden dear, thyself prepare; We soon shall meet upon that shore, Where love is free from doubt and care, And thou and I shall part no more!' Loud crowed the cock, the shadow fled, No more of Sandy could she see; But soft the passing spirit said, 'Sweet Mary, weep no more for me!'