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 a 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.t
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 sprcad 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.
*The first three editions read
"And left a lover's for her father's arms.'
The first three editions read
"In all the decent manliness of grief."
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 noble arts excel,
Thou nurse of every virtue, fare thee well!
Farewell! and O, 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 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 last four lines were written by Dr. Johnson.
A POETICAL EPISTLE TO LORD CLARE.
THANKS, my lord, for your venison, for finer or fatter
Never 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.
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 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 Howard, and Coley, and Hogarth, and Hiff-
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 call'd himself, enter'd;
An underbred, fine-spoken fellow was he,
And he smiled 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 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 venison to make out the dinner.
What say you-a pasty? it shall and it must,
And my wife, little Kitty, is famous for crust.
* Var. Such dainties to them! It would look like a flirt! (insult).
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