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!” PICCADILLY “Often, when I have felt a weariness or distaste at home, have I rushed out into her crowded Strand, and fed my humour till tears have wetted my cheek for unutterable sympathies with the multitudinous moving picture; * * nursed amid her noise, her crowds, her beloved smoke, what have I been doing all my life, if I have not lent out my heart with usury to such scenes!” C. LAMB. Gay shops, stately palaces, bustle and breeze, The whirring of wheels, and the murmur of trees, By night, or by day, whether noisy or stilly, Whatever my mood is—I love Piccadilly. Wet nights, when the gas on the pavement is streaming, And young Love is watching, and old Love is dreaming, And Beauty is whirl’d off to conquest, where shrilly Cremona makes nimble thy toes, Piccadilly! Bright days, when I leisurely pace to and fro, And meet all the people I do or don’t know. Here is jolly old Brown, and his fair daughter Lillie;— No wonder some pilgrims affect Piccadilly! See yonder pair, fonder ne’er rode at a canter,— She smiles on her Poet, contented to saunter; Some envy her spouse, and some covet her filly, He envies them both—he’s an ass, Piccadilly! Now were I that gay bride, with a slave at my feet, I would choose me a house in my favourite street. Yes or No—I would carry my point, willy, nilly; If “no,” pick a quarrel, if “yes,” Piccadilly. Thus the high frolic by—thus the lowly are seen, As perched on the roof of yon bulky machine, The Kensington dilly—and Tom Smith or Billy Smoke doubtful cigars in ill-used Piccadilly.