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His lovely daughter, lovelier in her tears,
The fond companion of his helpless years,
Silent went next, neglectful of her charms,
And left a lover's for a father's arms.
With louder plaints the mother spoke her woes,
And blest the cot where every pleasure rose ;
And kiss'd her thoughtless babes with many a tear,
And clasp'd them close, in sorrow doubly dear;
Whilst her fond husband strove to lend relief
In all the silent manliness of grief.

0, luxury! thou curst by Heaven's decree,
How ill exchang'd are things like these for thee!
How do thy potions, with insidious joy,
Diffuse their pleasures only to destroy!
Kingdoms by thee, to sickly greatness grown,
Boast of a florid vigour not their own.
At every draught more large and large they grow,
A bloated mass of rank unwieldy woe;
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 pondering 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 bonest fame;
Dear charming nymph, neglected and decried,
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;
Farewell, and O! where'er thy voice be tried,
On Torno's cliffs, or Pambamarca's side,
Whether where equinoctial fervours glow,
Or winter wraps the polar world in snow,
Still let thy voice, prevailing over time,
Redress the rigours 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 strength possest,
Though very poor, may still be very blest;
That trade's proud empire hastes to swift decay,
As ocean sweeps the labour'd mole away; .
While self-dependent power can time defy,
As rocks resist the billows and the sky.

THE HAUNCH OF VENISON.

A POETICAL EPISTLE TO LORD CLARE.

THANKS, my lord, for your venison, for finer or fatter
Never rang'd in a forest, or smok'd 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 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 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, 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 ne 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 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, en-

ter'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

dinner with nie; No words--I insist on't-precisely at three: We'll have Johnson, and Burke; all the wits will be

there; My acquaintance is slight, or I'd ask my Lord Clare. And, now that I think on't, as I am a sinner, We wanted this venison to make out the dinner!

take a poor

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 !"
Thus snatching 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;" Though 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, Though clogg'd with a coxcomb, and Kitty his wife. So next day in due splendour to make my approach, I drove to his door in my own hackney. coach.

When come to the place where we all were 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 cried, “ both eternally fail, The one with his speeches, and t’ other with Tbrale; But no matter, I'll warrant we'll make

up With two full as clever, and ten times as hearty. The one is a Scotsman, the other a Jew, They're both of them merry, and authors like you; The one writes the Snarler, the other the Scourge ; Some thinks he writes Cinnahe owns to Panurge.” While thus he described them by trade and by name, They enter'd, and dinner was serv'd as they came.

the party,

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