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Away they came, through thick and thin,
To a tall house near Lincoln's-inn:
('Twas on the night of a debate,
When all their lordships had sat late).
Behold the place, where if a poet
Shin'd in description, he might show it;
Tell how the moon-beam trembling falls,
And tips with silver all the walls;
Palladian walls, Venetian doors,
Grotesco roofs, and stucco floors:
But let it (in a word) be said,
The moon was up, and men a-bed,
The napkins white, the carpet red;
The guests withdrawn had left the treat,
And down the mice sat, tête à tête.'

Our courtier walks from dish to dish,
Tastes for his friend of fowl and fish;
Tells all their names, lays down the law:
Que ça est bon! Ah goûtez ça !
That jelly's rich, this malmsey healing,
Pray dip your whiskers and your tail in.'
Was ever such a happy swain?
He stuffs and swills, and stuffs again.
'I'm quite asham'd---'tis mighty rude
To eat so much-but all's so good.
I have a thousand thanks to give-
My lord alone knows how to live.'
No sooner said, but from the hall
Rush chaplain, butler, dogs, and all:
'A rat, a cat! clap to the door'---
The cat comes bouncing on the floor.
O for the heart of Homer's mice,
Or gods to save them in a trice!
(It was by Providence they think,
For your damn'd stucco has no chink).
'An't please your honour,' quoth the peasant,
This same dessert is not so pleasant:

Give me again my hollow tree,

A crust of bread, and liberty!'




AGAIN? new tumults in my breast?

Ah spare me, Venus! let me, let me rest!

I am not now, alas! the man

As in the gentle reign of my queen Anne. Ah! sound no more thy soft alarms,

Nor circle sober fifty with thy charms!

Mother too fierce of dear desires!

Turn, turn to willing hearts your wanton fires: To number five direct your doves

There spread round Murray all your blooming loves; Noble and young, who strikes the heart

With every sprightly, every decent part;

Equal the injur'd to defend,

To charm the mistress, or to fix the friend. He, with a hundred arts refin'd,

Shall stretch thy conquests over half the kind:

To him each rival shall submit,

Make but his riches equal to his wit. Then shall thy form the marble grace,

(Thy Grecian form) and Chloe lend the face : His house, embosom'd in the grove,

Sacred to social life and social love,

Shall glitter o'er the pendent green,

Where Thames reflects the visionary scene:

Thither the silver-sounding lyres

Shall call the smiling loves and young desires; There, every grace and muse shall throng, Exalt the dance, or animate the song; There youths and nymphs, in consort gay, Shall hail the rising, close the parting day.

With me, alas! those joys are o'er;

For me the vernal garlands bloom no more. Adieu! fond hope of mutual fire,

The still-believing, still renew'd desire; Adieu! the heart-expanding bowl,

And all the kind deceivers of the soul! But why? ah tell me, ah too dear!

Steals down my cheek th' involuntary tear? Why words so flowing, thoughts so free,

Stop, or turn nonsense, at once glance of thee? Thee, dress'd in fancy's airy beam,

Absent I follow through th' extended dream; Now, now I cease, I clasp thy charms,

And now you burst (ah cruel) from my arms!

And swiftly shoot along the Mall,

Or softly glide by the canal ;

Now shown by Cynthia's silver ray,

And now on rolling waters snatch'd away.




EST you should think that verse shall die,
Which sounds the silver Thames along,

Taught on the wings of truths to fly
Above the reach of vulgar song;

Though daring Milton sits sublime,
In Spenser native muses play;
Nor yet shall Waller yield to time,
Nor pensive Cowley's moral lay...

Sages and chiefs long since had birth

Ere Cæsar was or Newton nam'd; These rais'd new empires o'er the earth,

And those new heavens and systems fram'd.

Vain was the chief's, the sage's pride!
They had no poet, and they died:
In vain they schem'd, in vain they bled!
They had no poet, and are dead.




A Standish and Two Pens.

YES, I beheld th' Athenian queen

Descend in all her sober charms;

And, Take,' she said, and smil'd serene,
Take at this hand celestial arms:

Secure the radiant weapons wield; This golden lance shall guard desert, And if a vice dares keep the field,

'This steel shall stab it to the heart.'

Aw'd, on my bended knees I fell,
Receiv'd the weapons of the sky;
And dipp'd them in the sable well,
The fount of fame or infamy.

"What well? what weapon?' Flavia cries,
A standish, steel and golden pen!

It came from Bertrand's, not the skies;
I gave it you to write again.

But, friend, take heed whom you attack;
You'll bring a house, I mean of peers,
Red, blue, and green, nay, white and black,
L***** and all about your ears.

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