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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 bless'd tħe 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.

O luxury! thou curs’d 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 placed 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 degenerate times of shame
To catch the heart, or strike for honest fame-
Dear charming nymph, neglected and decried,
My shame in crowds, my solitary pride
Thou source of all my bliss, and alì 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 oh! where'er thy voice be tried,

On Tornea's cliffs, or Pambamarca's side, 1 Tornea, a river of Sweden. Pambamarca, a mountain of Mexico

Whether where equinoctial fervours glow,
Or winter wraps the polar world in snow,
Still let thy voice, prevailing over time,
Redress the rigours of the 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 possess'd,
Though very poor, may still be very blessd;
That trade's prond empire hastes to swift decay,
As ocean sweeps the labour'd mole away-
While seli-dependent power can time defy,
As rocks resist the billows and the sky.

THE HAUNCH OF VENISON.

AN 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 re-
To spoil such a delicate picture by eating: [grettin
I had thoughts, in my chamber, to place it in view,
To be shown to my friends as a piece of virtù ;
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 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. Byrne.? 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 undress'd, To paint it, or eat it, just as he lik'd best. Of the neck and the breast I had next to dispose, 'Twas a neck and a breast that might rival Monroe's? I Lord Clare's nephew.

? Miss Dorothy Monroe.

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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 Coley, and Williams, and Hogarth, and Hiff-
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 itto poets that seldom can eat,
Your very good mutton's a very good treat;
Such dainties to them, their health it might hurt,
Like sending them ruffles when wanting a shirt.
While thus I debated, in reverie centred,
An acquaintance, a friend as he call’d himself, entered;
An under-bred, fine-spoken fellow was he,
Who smiled as he gazed at the venison and me.
“What have we got here P-why, this is good eating!
Your own,

I

suppose-or is it in waiting ”. “ Why, whose should it be, sir p” cried I, with a flounce; “I get these things often”—but that was a bounce: “Some lords, my acquaintance, that settle the nation, 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 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 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 a dinner.
I'll take no denial-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 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 were all to dine A chair-lumber'd closet just twelve feet by nine

From a letter of the Duke of Cumberland's.

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