The bashful look, the rising breast,
Alternate spread alarms:

The lovely stranger stands confest
A maid in all her charms.

"And, ah, forgive a stranger rude,
A wretch, forlorn," she cry'd;
"Whose feet unhallow'd thus intrude
Where heaven and you reside.

But let a maid thy pity share,
Whom love has taught to stray:
Who seeks for rest, but finds despair
Companion of her way.

My father liv'd beside the Tyne,

A wealthy lord was he;

And all his wealth was mark'd as mine,
He had but only me.

To win me from his tender arms,
Unnumber'd suitors came;

Who prais'd me for imputed charms,
And felt, or feign'd a flame.

Each hour a mercenary crowd

With richest proffers strove;
Among the rest young Edwin bow'd,
But never talk'd of love.

In humble, simplest habit clad,
No wealth or power had he;
Wisdom and worth were all he had,
But these were all to me.

The blossom opening to the day,
The dews of heav'n refin'd,
Could nought of purity display,

To emulate his mind.

The dew, the blossoms of the tree,

With charms inconstant shine;

Their charms were his, but woe to me, Their constancy was mine..

For still I try'd 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 dy'd.

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 cry'd,
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,
Restor'd 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 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; Tho' my stomach was sharp, I could scarce help regretting,

To spoil such a delicate picture by eating:

I had thoughts, in my chambers to place it in view,
To be shown 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 fry'd 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 Monro'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;

* Lord Clare's nephew.

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 center'd,

An acquaintance, a friend as he call'd himself, enter'd;

An under-bred, fine-spoken fellow was he,

And he smil'd as he look'd at the venison 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,
Tho' clogg'd with a coxcomb, and Kitty his wife.
So next day in due splendor to make my approach,
I drove to his door in my own hackney coach.
When come to the place where we were all to dine,
(A chair-lumber'd closet, just twelve feet by nine)
Vol. II.

My friend bade me welcome, but struck me quite

dumb,

With tidings that Johnson and Burke would not come;
"For I knew it," he cry'd, " 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 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 describ'd them by trade and by name,
They enter'd, and dinner was serv'd as they came.
At the top a fry'd liver and bacon were seen,
At the bottom was tripe in a swinging tureen;
At the sides there were spinage 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, tho' 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." "O-ho! quoth my friend, he'll come on in a trice, 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-echo'd the Scot; "Tho' splitting, I'll still keep a corner for that."