Whitewash.

Whitewash.
575.6

Slain at the age of rising thirty-two,
He filled the Cup of Vice to over- flowing: he knew
Much that was better left unknown,
And what he didn’t know, If tales be true,
Was not worth knowing.

But as a youth he was not wholly bad;
When he was crowned, men sald to one another.
“By Jove! A worthy and a studious lad”;
And so he was. sad!- until-oh passing
He lost his Mother!

That was the turning point. While she was there
He lived comparatively free from scandal;
He knew the sweetness of a Mother’s care:
Felt the correcting arm, that did not spare
A Mother’s sandal.

Who knows? Perchance, had she been near to guide,
His reign had been less lamentably shady;
But, on the morning of his regal pride,
With disconcerting suddenness, she died!
The poor old lady!

Oh, not to trespass on an orphan’s grief,
‘Twas from that time he took to paths of error
(Thinking, no doubt, that change would bring relief)
Made it a habit, and became, in brief,
A holy terror.

I say no more. But tho his deeds were dark
They hold a pathos that no crime can smother;
Young Nero would have doubtless made his mark
Had he not, in a mad, mad, boyish lark Murdered his Mother!
-Punch.