ODE XX.

THE BARD'S BANQUET.

To George Colman the Younger.

Vile potabis modicis Sabinum.

ACCEPT, comic mortal, this poor Imitation;
Its birth was propitious, tho' humble its claim ;
'Twas penn'd when the theatre's loud acclamation
Established for ever your title to fame.

When London re-echoes the praises of Colman,
Shall I by my harp in despondency sit?
No-

Horace in London shall not be the sole man Withholding his tribute from genius and wit.

Then come to my banquet; 'tis lowly, I know it, And no pungent relish the appetite lures:

For what can a dull inexperienced poet

Produce that will tickle a palate like yours?

But as to my guests, they shall feast upon treasures
Sufficient to charm the most epicure elf;

My long bill of fare is a budget of pleasures,
Comprised in one exquisite item-yourself.

E

ODE XXII.

THE BAILIFF.

Integer vitæ, scelerisque purus.

THE pauper poet, pure in zeal,

Who aims the Muse's crown to steal,
Need steal no crown of baser sort,
To buy a goose or pay for port.
He needs not Fortune's poison'd source,

Nor guard the House of Commons yields,
Whether by Newgate lie his course,

The Fleet, King's Bench, or Cold Bath Fields. For I, whom late, impransus, walking, The Muse beyond the verge had led, Beheld a huge bumbailiff stalking,

Who star'd, but touch'd me not, and fled!

A bailiff, black and big like him,
So scowling, desperate, and grim,

No lock-up house, the gloomy den
Of all the tribe shall breed again.
Place me beyond the verge afar,
Where alleys blind the light debar,
Or bid me fascinated lie.

Beneath the creeping catchpole's eye;
Place me where spunging houses round
Attest that bail is never found;

Where poets starve who write for bread,
And writs are more than poems read;
Still will I quaff the Muse's spring,
In reason's spite a rhyming sinner,
I'll sometimes for a supper sing,

And sometimes whistle for a dinner.

ODE XXIII.

CUPID'S INVITATION.

Vitas hinnuleo me similis, Chloe.

As the poet doom'd to linger,
Phillips, in thy shop's retreat,
Cash for copyright to finger,

Eyes with dread the neighbouring Fleet,

Turns with idle terror pale, if
Busy crouds his speed molest,
Thinks each passenger a bailiff,
Every jostle an arrest ;

Thus, dear Chloe, thus you fly me ;
Prithee bid these fears adieu :

How ungenerous to deny me

What I ne'er denied to you.