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 cursed by Heaven's decree,
How ill exchanged 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.
E'en now the devastation is begun,

And half the business of destruction done;
E'en 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 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 oh! 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 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 bless'd;
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 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 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,
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 undress'd,

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?"

"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."

"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 venʼson 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, the 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.

At the top a fried liver and bacon were seen,
At the bottom was tripe in a swingeing tureen;
At the sides there was spinach and pudding made hot;
In the middle a place where the pasty-was not.
Now, my lord, as for tripe, it's my utter 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 worst was that d
-d Scotch rogue,
With his long-winded speeches, his smiles, and his brogue;
And, "Madam," quoth he, "may this bit be my poison,
A prettier dinner I never set eyes on!

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