"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.

66 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 woe to me! Their constancy was mine.

"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 prest.

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 Ven'son; 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 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'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 gazed on the Haunch, I thought of a friend that was trusty and staunch,

* Lord Clare's nephew.

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 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 venʼson—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 look'd at the Ven'son and me.

"What have we got here?-Why, this is good eating!

Your own, I suppose- —or is it in waiting?"

66

Why, whose should it be?” cried I, with a flounce,

"I get these things often"-but that was a bounce:

66 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 Ven'son 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 Ven'son 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 Ven'son pasty, Were things that I never disliked 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 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, They're both of them merry, and authors like you. The one writes the 'Snarler,' the other the 'Scourge: Some think he writes 'Cinna'-he owns to 'Panurge.' While thus he described them by trade and by name, They enter'd, and dinner was served as they came.

* See the letters that passed between his Royal Highness Henry Duke of Cumberland and Lady Grosvenor. 12mo. 1769.