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 member 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,
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.

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.

It's a truth, and your lordship may ask Mr. Burn.*
To go on with my tale: as I gazed 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 liked best.

Of the neck and the breast I had next to dispose
'Twas a neck and a breast that might rival Munroe'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 centred,
An acquaintance-a friend, as he call'd himself-
enter'd;

An under-bred, fine-spoken fellow was he,

And he smiled as he looked at the venison and me, 'What have you 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 pleased to be kind- but I hate ostentation.'

*Lord Clare's nephew.