'And love is still an emptier sound,

The modern fair one's jest ;
On earth unseen, or only found
To warm the turtle's nest.

"For shame, fond youth, thy sorrows hush,
And spurn the sex,' he said;
But while he spoke, a rising blush
His love-lorn guest betray'd.

Surprised, he sees new beauties rise,
Swift mantling to the view;
Like colors o'er the morning skies,
As bright, as transient too.

The bashful look, the rising breast,
Alternate spread alarms :

The lovely stranger stands confess'd,
A maid in all her charms.

And, 'Ah! forgive a stranger rude
A wretch forlorn,' she cried;
"Whose feet unhallow'd thus intrude
Where heaven and you reside.

But let a maid thy pity share,
Whom love has taught to stray ;
Who seeks for rest, but finds despair
Companion of her way.

'My father lived beside the Tyne,

A wealthy lord was he:

And all his wealth was mark'd as mine,

He had but only me.

6 To win me from his tender arms,.
Unnumber'd suitors came,

Who praised me for imputed charms,
And felt, or feign'd, a flame.

'Each hour a mercenary crowd
With richest proffers strove;
Amongst the rest young Edwin bow'd,
But never talk'd of love.

'In humble, simplest habit clad,
No wealth nor power had he;
Wisdom and worth were all he had,
But these were all to me.

'And when, beside me in the dale,
He caroll'd lays of love,

His breath lent fragrance to the gale,
And music to the grove.

The blossom opening to the day,
The dews of heaven refined,
Could nought of purity display
To emulate his mind.

The dew, the blossom on the tree,

With charms inconstant shine;

Their charms were his, but, wo to me,
Their constancy was mine.

* This stanza was preserved by Richard Archdale, Esq., a mem ber of the Irish Parliament, to whom it was given by Goldsmith, and was first inserted after the author's death.

"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 my life shall pay;
I'll seek the solitude he sought,

Forbid it, Heaven!' the Hermit cried, And clasp'd her to his breast;

he wondering fair one turn'd to chide 'Twas Edwin's self that press'd!

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.

THE HAUNCH OF VENISON.*

A POETICAL 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 shewn to my friends as a piece of virtu;
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 pronounce,
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,

* The description of the dinner party in this poem is imitated from Boileau's fourth Satire. Boileau himself took the hint from Horace, Lib. ii. Sat. 8, which has also been imitated by Regnier Sat. 10.