Even 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;
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Those pois'nous 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 murd'rous still than they :
While oft in whirls the mad tornado flies,
Mingling the ravag'd 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 heav'n! what sorrows gloom'd that parting day,
That call'd them from their native walks away;
When the poor exiles, every pleasure past,
Hung round the bowers, and fondly look'd their last,
And took a long farewell, and wish'd in vain
For seats like these beyond the western main;
And shudd'ring still to face the distant deep,
Return'd and wept, and still return'd to weep!
The good old sire, the first prepar'd 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 a father's arms.
With louder plaints the mother spoke her woes,
And blest 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.-
O luxury; thou curs'd by Heaven's decree,
How ill exchang'd 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 large and more 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.
Even now the devastation is begun,
And half the business of destruction done;
Even now, methinks, as pond'ring 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 plac'd 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 degen'rate 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 th' 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 possest,
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-dependant power can time defy,
As rocks resist the billows and the sky.
TO LORD CLAR
(First printed in 1765.)
THANKS, my lord, for your venison, for finer or fatter
Never rang'd in a forest, or smok'd 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 virtû;
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 gaz'd 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 lik'd 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 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 called himself, enter'd,
An under-bred, fine-spoken fellow was he,
And he smil'd 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 pleas'd 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 venison 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 venison 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;' Tho' I could not help thinking my gentleman hasty, Yet Johnson, and Burke, and a good venison pasty, Were things that I never dislik'd 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 serv'd as they came.
• See the letters between Henry Duke of Cumberland, and Lady Grosvenor; 12mo. 1769.
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 vexed 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 check.
I could dine on this tripe seven days in the week:
I like these here dinners so pretty and small:
But your friend there, the doctor, eats nothing at all.'
•
Oho!' quoth my friend, he'll come on in a trice, He's keeping a corner for something that's nice: There's 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; 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 resolv'd, and the pasty delay'd. With looks that quite petrified, enter'd the maid; A visage so sad, and so pale with affright, Wak'd Priam in drawing his curtains by night. But we quickly found out (for who could mistake her?) That she came with some terrible news from the baker: 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 misplac'd, To send such good verses to one of your taste; You've got an odd something- -a kind of discerningA 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.
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