Sidor som bilder

• The dew, the blossoms of the tree,

With charms inconstant shine; Their charms were his, but, woe to me,

Their constancy was mine. • For still I tried each fickle art,

Importunate and vain;
And while his passion touch'd my heart,

I triumph'd in his pain.
Till, quite dejected with my scorn,

He left me to my pride;
And sought a solitude forlorn

In secret where he died.
• But mine the sorrow, mine the fault,
And well

life shall

pay; I'll seek the solitude he sought,

And stretch me where he lay. • And there forlorn, despairing, hid,

I'll lay me down and die; 'Twas so for me that Edwin did,

And so for him will I.' • Forbid it, Heaven !' the hermit cried,

And clasp'd her to his breast: The wondering fair one turn’d to chide,

"Twas Edwin's self that press'd. • Turn, Angelina, ever dear,

My charmer, turn to see
Thy own, thy long lost Edwin here,

Restored to love and thee.
• Thus let me hold thee to my heart,

And every care resign:
And shall we never, never part,

My life my all that's mine!

No, never, from this hour to part,

We'll live and love so true,
The sigh that rends thy constant heart

Shall break thy Edwin's too.'


An Epistle to Lord Clare.


THANKS, my lord, for your venison, for finer or

fatter Ne'er ranged in a forest or smoked in a platter; The haunch was a picture for painters to study, The fat was so white, and the lean was so ruddy; Though my stomach was sharp, I could scarce

help regretting To spoil such a delicate picture by eating : I had thoughts, in my chamber to place it in view, To be shown to my friends as a piece of virtû: As in some Irish houses, where things are so so, One gammon of bacon hangs up for a show; But, for eating a rasher of what they take pride in, They'd as soon think of eating the pan it is fried in. But hold – let me pause-don't I hear you pro

nounce, This tale of the bacon's a damnable bounce; Well, suppose it a bounce-sure a poet may try, By a bounce now and then, to get courage to fly. But, my lord, it's no bounce: I protest in my turn,

[Burn It's a truth—and your lordship may ask Mr.

1 Lord Clare's nephew.


To go

on with

my tale-as I gazed on the haunch, I thought of a friend that was trusty and stanch; So I cut it, and sent it to Reynold's undress'd, To paint it, or eat it, just as he liked best: Of the neck and the breast I had next to dispose; 'Twas a neck and a breast that might rival Monroe's: But in parting with these I was puzzled again, With the how and the who and the where and

the when, There's H-d and C-y and H-rth and H-ff, I think they love venison-I know they love beef. There's my countryman Higgins-Oh! let him For making a blunder or picking a bone. [alone, But hang it-to poets who seldom can eat, Your very good mutton's a very good treat; Such dainties to them, their health it might hurt, It's like sending them ruffles when wanting a shirt. While thus I debated, in reverie centred, An acquaintance, a friend as he call’d himself, en

ter'd; An underbred, finespoken fellow was he, And he smiled as he look'd at the venison and me. What have we got here ?-Why this is good eat

ing! Your own I suppose-or is it in waiting ? • Why whose should it be? (cried I with a flounce;) I get these things often-(but that was a bounce): Some lords, my acquaintance, that settle the na

tion, Are pleased to be kind-but I hate ostentation.'

• If that be the case then (cried he, very gay), I'm glad I have taken this house in my way. To-morrow you

dinner with me; No words-I insist on't-precisely at three :

take a poor

We'll have Johnson, and Burke; all the wits will be there;

[Clare. My acquaintance is slight, or I'd ask my lord And, now that I think on't, as I am a sinner! We wanted this venison to make out a dinner. What say you-a pasty, it shall, and it must, And my wife, little Kitty, is famous for crust. Here, porter--this venison with me to Mile End; No stirring, I beg—my dear friend---my dear friend!

[wind, Thus snatching his hat, he brush'd off like the And the porter and eatables follow'd behind.

Left alone to reflect, having emptied my shelf, And nobody with me at sea but myself? ;' Though I could not help thinking my gentleman hasty,

[pasty Yet Johnson and Burke and a good venison Were things that I never disliked in my Though clogg'd with a coxcomb, and Kitty his

wife. So next day, in due splendour to make my ap

proach, I drove to his door in my own hackney coach. When come to the place where we were all to

dine (A chair lumber'd closet just twelve feet by nine), My friend bade me welcome, but struck me quite dumb

(come; With tidings that Johnson and Burke would not · For I knew it (he cried), both eternally fail, The one with his speeches, and the’ other with

Thrale; See the letters that passed between bis Royal Highness Henry Duke of Camberland and Lady Grosvenor.


But no matter, I'll warrant we'll make up the party, With two full as clever, and ten times as hearty. The one is a Scotchman, the other a Jew, They're both of them merry, and authors like you; The one writes the Snarler, the other the Scourge; Some think he writes Cinna-he owns to Panurge.' While thus he described them by trade and by

name, They enter'd, and dinner was served as they came.

At the top a fried liver and bacon were seen, At the bottom was tripe, in a swinging tureen; At the sides there were spinach and pudding

made hot; In the middle a place where the pasty—was not. Now, my lord, as for tripe, it's my utter aversion, And your bacon I hate like a Turk or a Persian; So there I sat stuck like a horse in a pound, While the bacon and liver went merrily round: But what vex'd me most, was that d- -'d Scot

[his brogue, With his long winded speeches, his smiles, and And, madam (quoth he), may this bit be my A prettier dinner I never set eyes on; [poison, Pray a slice of your liver, though may I be cursed, But I've eat of your tripe till I'm ready to burst.' The tripe (quoth the Jew, with his chocolate

cheek), I could dine on this tripe seven days in a week: I like these here dinners so pretty and small; But your friend there, the doctor, eats nothing at

all.' • 0-ho! (quoth my friend) he'll come on in a

trice, He's keeping a corner for something that's nice :

tish rogue,

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