The dome where pleasure holds her midnight reign,
Here, richly deck'd, admits the gorgeous train:
Tumultuous grandeur crowds the blazing square,
The rattling chariots clash, the torches glare.
Sure scenes like these no troubles e'er annoy !
Sure these denote one universal joy! [eyes
Are these thy serious thoughts? Ah! turn thine
Where the poor houseless shivering female lies.
She once, perhaps, in village plenty blest,
Has wept at tales of innocence distrest;
Her modest looks the cottage might adorn,
Sweet as the primrose peeps beneath the thorn;
Now lost to all, her friends, her virtue fled,
Near her betrayer's door she lays her head,
And pinch'd with cold, and shrinking from the
shower,

With heavy heart deplores that luckless hour,
When idly first, ambitious of the town,

She left her wheel and robes of country brown. Do thine, sweet Auburn, thine, the loveliest train,

Do thy fair tribes participate her pain?
E'en now perhaps, by cold and hunger led,
At proud men's doors they ask a little bread !
Ah no. To distant climes, a dreary scene,
Where half the convex world intrudes between,
Through torrid tracts with fainting steps they go,
Where wild Altama murmurs to their woe.
Far different there from all that charm'd before,
The various terrors of that horrid shore;
Those blazing suns that dart a downward ray,
And fiercely shed intolerable day;

Those matted woods where birds forget to sing,
But silent bats in drowsy clusters cling;
Those poisonous fields, with rank luxuriance
crown'd,

Where the dark scorpion gathers death around;
Where at each step the stranger fears to wake
The rattling terrors of the vengeful snake;
Where crouching tigers wait their hapless prey,
And savage men, more murderous still than they;
While oft in whirls the mad tornado flies,
Mingling the ravaged landscape with the skies.
Far different these from every former scene,
The cooling brook, the grassy vested green,
The breezy covert of the warbling grove,
That only shelter'd thefts of harmless love.

Good Heaven! what sorrows gloom'd that
parting day,

That call'd them from their native walks away;
When the poor exiles, every pleasure past, [last,
Hung round the bowers, and fondly look'd their
And took a long farewell, and wish'd in vain
For seats like these beyond the western main;
And, shuddering still to face the distant deep,
Return'd and wept, and still return'd to weep.
The good old sire the first prepared to go
To new-found worlds, and wept for others' woe;
But for himself, in conscious virtue brave,
He only wish'd for worlds beyond the grave.
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 her father's arms.
With louder plaints the mother spoke her woes,
And bless'd the 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.

9

O luxury! thou curst 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 blest;
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 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.

nounce

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 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 ven❜son-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, 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; [Clare.

My acquaintance is slight, or I'd ask my Lord
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!"
[wind,
Thus, snatching his hat, he brush'd off like the
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,)

*Lord Clare's nephew.

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

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 'Pa-
nurge.'

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 most was that d-d Scottish 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!

Pray, a slice of your liver, though, may I be curst, But I've eat of your tripe till I'm ready to burst." "The tripe!" quoth the Jew, with his chocolate cheek,

"I could dine on this tripe seven days in a week; I like these here dinners, so pretty and small; But your friend there, the Doctor, eats nothing

at all."

[trice, "O-ho!" quoth my friend, "he'll come on in a He's keeping a corner for something that's nice; There's a Pasty"-"A Pasty!" repeated the Jew, "I don't care if I keep a corner for't too." "What the de'il, mon, a Pasty!" re-echoed the Scot,

66

Though splitting, I'll still keep a corner for that." "We'll all keep a corner," the lady cried out; "We'll all keep a corner," was echoed about. While thus we resolved, and the Pasty delay'd, With looks that quite petrified enter'd the maid; A visage so sad, and so pale with affright, Waked Priam in drawing his curtains by night. But we quickly found out-for who could mistake her?[baker: That she came with some terrible news from the And so it fell out; for that negligent sloven Had shut out the Pasty on shutting his oven. Sad Philomel thus- but let similes dropAnd, now that I think on't, the story may stop. To be plain, my good Lord, it's but labour misplaced,

To send such good verses to one of your taste: You've got an odd something-a kind of discerning

A relish a taste-sicken'd over by learning;
At least, it's your temper, as very well known,
That you think very slightly of all that's your own:
So, perhaps, in your habits of thinking amiss,
You may make a mistake, and think slightly of this.

Yet, why complain? What, though by bonds confined,

Should bonds repress the vigour of the mind?
Have we not cause for triumph, when we see
Ourselves alone from idol-worship free?
Are not, this very morn, those feasts begun,
Where prostrate Error hails the rising sun?
Do not our tyrant lords this day ordain
For superstitious rites and mirth profane?
And should we mourn? Should coward Virtue fly,
When vaunting Folly lifts her head on high?
No! rather let us triumph still the more,
And as our fortune sinks, our spirits soar.

Air.

The triumphs that on vice attend
Shall ever in confusion end;
The good man suffers but to gain,
And every virtue springs from pain:
As aromatic plants bestow

No spicy fragrance while they grow;
But crush'd or trodden to the ground,
Diffuse their balmy sweets around.
FIRST PROPHET.

Recitative.

But hush, my sons! our tyrant lords are near;
The sounds of barbarous pleasure strike mine ear;
Triumphant music floats along the vale;
Near, nearer still, it gathers on the gale:
The growing sound their swift approach declares;-
Desist, my sons, nor mix the strain with theirs.

Enter CHALDEAN PRIESTS, attended.
FIRST PRIEST.

Air.

Come on, my companions, the triumph display,
Let rapture the minutes employ;

The sun calls us out on this festival day,
And our monarch partakes in the joy.

SECOND PRIEST.

Like the sun, our great monarch all rapture supplies,
Both similar blessings bestow :

The sun with his splendour illumines the skies,
And our monarch enlivens below.

A CHALDEAN WOMAN.

Air.

Haste, ye sprightly sons of pleasure; Love presents the fairest treasure, Leave all other joys for me.

A CHALDEAN ATTENDANT.

Or rather, Love's delights despising,
Haste to raptures ever rising,

Wine shall bless the brave and free.

FIRST PRIEST.

Wine and beauty thus inviting, Each to different joys exciting, Whither shall my choice incline?

SECOND PRIEST.

I'll waste no longer thought in choosing; But neither this nor that refusing,

I'll make them both together mine.

FIRST PRIEST.

Recitative.

But whence, when joy should brighten o'er the land,
This sullen gloom in Judah's captive band?
Ye sons of Judah, why the lute unstrung?
Or why those harps on yonder willows hung?
Come, take the lyre, and pour the strain along,
The day demands it; sing us Sion's song.
Dismiss your griefs, and join our warbling choir;
For who like you can wake the sleeping lyre!

SECOND PROPHET.

Chain'd as we are, the scorn of all mankind,
To want, to toil, and every ill consign'd,
Is this a time to bid us raise the strain,
Or mix in rites that Heaven regards with pain?
No, never! May this hand forget each art
That wakes to finest joys the human heart,
Ere I forget the land that gave me birth,
Or join to sounds profane its sacred mirth!