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Till sapp'd their strength, and every part unsound,
Down, down they sink, and spread'a ruin round.
Even now the devastation is begun,
And half the business of destruction done;
Even now, methinks, as pond'ring here I stand,
I see the rural virtues leave the land.
Down where yon anchoring vessel spreads the sail
That idly waiting flaps with every gale,
Downward they move, a melancholy band,
Pass from the shore, and darken all the strand.
Contented toil, and hospitable care,
And kind connubial tenderness, are there;
And piety with wishes plac'd above,
And steady loyalty, and faithful love.
And thou, sweet Poetry, thou loveliest maid,
Still first to fly where sensual joys invade;
Unfit in these degen'rate times of shame,
To catch the heart, or strike for honest famc;
Dear charming nymph, neglected and decry'd,
My shame in crowds, my solitary pride,
Thou source of all my bliss and all my woe,
That found'st me poor at first, and keep'st me so ;
Thou guide, by which the nobler arts excel,
Thou nurse of every virtue, fare thee well;
Farewel, and O! where'er thy voice be try'd,
On Torno's cliff, or Pambamarca's side,
Whether where equinoctial fervors glow,
Or winter wraps the polar world in snow,
Still. let thy voice, prevailing over time,
Redress' the rigors of th’ inclement clime;
Aid slighted truth, with thy persuasive strain ;
Teach erring man to' spurn the rage of gain;
Teach him, that states of native strengtli possest,
Tho' very poor, may still be very blest;
That trade's proud empire hastes to swift decay,
As ocean sweeps the labor'd mole away;
While self-dependent power can time defy,
As rocks resist the billows and the sky.

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ear,

kt ia parting with

THE

HAUNCH OF VENISON;

A POETICAL EPISTLE.

Tilk the Low, and t

shen.
Dere's Pl_d, and
Itink they love v
There's my country
Ir making a blank
Btwang it-to po

Ton very good m
with tasties to the
kis le sending tt
we thus I dela
An aquaintance,
A wher-bred, fit
Had te smilld as

a base weg
"Tour own, I su

TO LORD CLARE.

"Hoy whose she 'lget these thin

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

Never rang'd in a forest, or smok'd in a platter;
The launch was a picture for painters to study,
The fat was so white, and the lean was so ruddy ;
Tho' my stomach was sharp, I could scarce help re-

gretting,
To spoil such a delicate picture by eating :
I had thoughts, in my chambers to place it in view,
To be shown 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 fry'd 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 by:

But, my lord, it's no bounce: 1 protest in my turn,
It's a truth-and your lordship may ask Mr. Burn.*
To go on with my tale-as I gaz'd on the haunch,
I thought of a friend that was trusty and staunch ;
So I cut it, and sent it to Reynolds undrest,
To paint it, or eat it, just as he lik'd best.
Of the neck and the breast I had next to dispose ;
'I'was a neck and a breast that might rival Monro's;

Setelords, my
* Are pleas'd to

"If that be to
"I'm glad I 12
"TO-MOTOW YC
"No words-1
"We'll have 30

there;
"My acquaint

And, now
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# Lord Clare's nephew.

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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 yenison-I know they love beef.
There's my countryman Higgins-Oh! let him alone
For making a blunder, or picking a bone.
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 center'd,
An acquaintance, a friend as he call'd himself, enter'd;
An under-bred, fine-spoken fellow was he,
And he smil'd as he look'd at the venison and me.
"What have we got here?- Why this is good eating?
"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 nation,
"Are pleas'd 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 take a poor dinner with me; " No words-I insist on't-precisely at three : “We'll have Johnson and Burke, all the wits will be

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"My acquaintance is slight, or I'd ask my lord Clare.

And, now that I think on't, as I ain 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 ;*
“ Nostirring-I beg-my dear friend-my dear friend!".
Thus spatching his hat, he brush'd off like the wind,
And the porter and eatables follow'd behind.

Left alone to reflect, having emptied my shelf,
And "nobody with me at sea but myself.”

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"Ako! quoth my f1

"Was keeping a corn These's a pasty** "I don't care if I ket What the de'il, mor The splitting, I'll s vel all keep a co

hell keep a co Texthus we resol

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viage so sad, ani ***

Priain in dra bet ve quickly foun Trang came with

Tho' I could not help thinking my gentleman hasty,
Yet Johnson, and Burke, and a good venison pasty,
Were things that I never dislik'd in my life,
Tho' clogg'd with a coxcomb, and Kitty his wife.
So next day in due splendor to make my approachi,
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,
With tidings that Johnson and Burke would not come;
“For I knew it,” he cry'd, “ both eternally fail,
“The one with his speeches, and other with Thrale;
“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,
“ Thoy both of them merry, and authors like you ;
“ The one writes the Sparler, the other the Scourge;
“ Some think he writes Cinna--he owns to Panurge."
While thus he describ'd them by trade and by name,
They enter'd, and dinner was served as they came.

At the top a fry'd liver and bacon were seen,
At the bottoni was tripe, in a swinging tureen ;
At the sides there were spinage and pudding made hot;
In the middle a place where the pasty-was not.
Now, my lord, as for tripe it's my útter 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 Scottish rogue,
With his long-winded speeches, his smiles and his

brogue;
And, "madam," quoth he, "may this bit be my poison,
“ A prettier dipner I never set eyes on;
« Pray a slice of your liver, tho' may I be curst,
“ 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."

sit fell out,

sat out the
Pulomel thus

hurt that I
Winte plain, my 5

A vend such good
Score got an odd
listy taste
At last, it's you
That you think
* perhaps, in y

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*0-ho! quoth my friend, he'll come on in a trice,
" He's keeping a corner for something that's nice: :
"There's a pasty"-"a pasty!" repeated the Jew ; )
“I don't care if I keep a corner for't too."
"What the de'il, mon, a pasty!" re-echo'd the Scot;
" Tho' splitting, I'll still keep a corner for that."
"We'll all keep a corner,” the lady cry'd out;'
"We'll all keep a corner, was echo'd about.”
While thus we resolv'd and the pasty delay'd,
With looks that quite petrified, enter'd the maid ;
A visage so sad, and so pale with affright,
Wak'd Priain in drawing his curtains by night;
But we quickly found out, for who could mistake her,
That she came with sonie terrible news from the baker:
And so it fell out, for that negligent sloven,
Had shut out the pasty on shutting his oven.
Sad Philomel thus-but let similes drop-
And now that I think on't the story may stop.
To be plain, my good lord, it's but labor misplac'd,
To send such good verses to one of your taste ;
You've got an odd something-a kind of discerning-
A relish-a taste-sicken'd over by learning ;
At least, it's your temper, as very well known,
That you think very slightly of all that's your own:
So perhaps, in your habits of thinking amiss,
You may make a mistake and think slightly of this.

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RETALIATION. *

A POEM.

SOB,

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OF old, when Scarron his companions invited,

Each guest brought his dish, and the feast was

st."

united,

eek,

* Dr. Goldsmith and some of his friends occasionally dined at the St. Janies's Coffee-house.One day it was pra

1."

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